Jlamilton  DrummonJ 


THE    SEVEN    HOUSES 


'BACK,  BACK!"  SHE  CRIED...  "LET  NO  MAN  COME  WITHIN 
THKEE  STEPS  OF  THE  TERRACE." P<*gC 


The  SEVEN  HOUSES 

A    ROMANCE   BY 
HAMILTON    DRUMMOND 

Author  of  "A  KING'S  PAWN" 
WITH  FRONTISPIECE  BY  A.  FORRESTIER 


NEfF    rORK 

FREDERICK   A.  STOKES   COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  igox, 
BY  FREDERICK  A.  STOKKS  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


Published,  September,  1901 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  HOROSCOPE i 

THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE, 34 

THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK 71 

THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE,    .       .       .       .117 

THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH, 155 

THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION,  .  .  .  .198 
THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR,  ....  236 
THE  HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  .  266 


2135103 


THE  SEVEN    HOUSES. 


THE  HOROSCOPE. 

I. 

IN  his  padded  settle  by  the  gaping  western 
hearth  of  the  great  hall  sat  Guy  de  Lhoeac,  Seigneur 
of  that  name  and  Seventh  Suzerain  in  direct  suc- 
cession. For  all  that  it  was  no  more  than  mid 
September  a  birch  log  had  hung  flaming  on  the  huge 
brass  dogs  since  sunset,  and  from  time  to  time  he 
leant  forward,  warming  himself :  since,  in  spite  of 
its  dregs  of  passions,  the  blood  of  old  age  is  chilly. 
At  the  fall  of  the  dusk — and  in  the  dimly-lit,  cav- 
ernous hall  of  Chateau  Lhoeac,  grey  and  gloomy 
even  in  the  full  of  a  summer's  moon,  the  dusk  fell 
swiftly — the  wenches  had  brought  lights;  but  the 
Seigneur  had  harshly  bidden  them  begone  ;  speak- 
ing with  less  than  even  his  scant  courtesy,  and  then 
turned  back  and  stared  afresh  at  the  red  embers. 

Five  times  in  his  three  hours'  vigil  he  had  leaped 
to  his  feet  in  a  quick  impulse  of  impatience  and 
paced  the  broad  hall  up  and  down  with  a  tread 
whose  firmness  told  little  of  his  five-and-seventy 
years  of  hard-lived  life.  Up  and  down,  up  and 
down,  his  shortened  scabbard  battering  against  his 
left  heel  as  he  walked.  Each  time  he  crossed  the 


2  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

foot  of  the  stairway  that  opened  at  the  back  of  the 
hall  he  paused,  listening.  A  second  or  two,  no 
more,  he  stood  with  lifted  chin  and  one  hand  hol- 
lowed to  help  the  dullness  of  hearing,  then,  as  no 
sound  came  down  the  stair-shaft  but  the  common, 
far-off  babble  of  a  great  household,  his  pointed 
beard  sank  down  upon  his  breast  again,  and  he 
went  on  his  restless  way ;  a  living  shadow  amid  a 
hundred  wavering  silhouettes  that  leaped,  and 
danced,  and  postured  in  the  play  of  the  fire.  Then 
his  mood  would  change  afresh,  or  his  mind  grow 
weaiy  of  the  monotonous,  solitary  tramp.  Back  he 
went  to  his  settle,  and  sighing  wearily  bent  once 
more  over  the  blaze  warming  himself,  while  above 
him  on  the  groined  roof  his  distorted  outline 
loomed  black  and  vast  as  King  Solomon's  im- 
prisoned Geni  of  the  Smoke. 

A  stern,  pathetic  face  it  was  that  drew  its  only 
ruddiness  from  the  glow  of  the  burning  wood. 
Stern  in  its  thin,  gaunt  cheeks,  furrowed  deep  by 
the  claws  of  time ;  its  sharp,  hooked  nose  ;  its  fierce 
eyes,  dull  at  times  and  heavy  with  age  and  sorrow  ; 
and  yet,  in  such  a  man  as  Guy  de  Lhoeac  the  eyes 
are  slow  to  grow  old»  for  as  the  thoughts  wake  to 
being  in  the  still  active  brain,  they  leaped  into  a 
fire  that  matched  the  sudden  spirit  of  the  flame 
they  watched.  Stern,  too,  in  its  hard-pressed 
narrow  lips,  its  square  chin  showing  through  the 
meagre  pointed  beard  ;  stern  from  white  hair  above 
to  white  hair  below :  that  was  the  face  of  Guy  de 
Lhoeac  at  five-and-seventy,  and  those  who  knew 
him  said  that  the  face  matched  the  man. 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  3 

Pathetic,  too.  Pathetic  for  its  very  sternness. 
Lhoeac  was  no  man  to  babble  of  his  ambitions  and 
their  failure,  but  every  hard  line  was  a  story  of 
dumb  grief  and  baffled  pride.  Pathetic  in  that  no 
ease  and  quiet  had  come  to  the  spirit  of  which  it 
was  the  mirror  :  no,  not  though  the  time  for  shifting 
the  burdens  of  life  to  younger  shoulders  had  come 
and  gone,  a  fierce,  a  soured,  a  wearied  man,  wearied 
of  more  than  the  hour,  was  Guy  de  Lhoeac  as  he 
sat  with  his  spirit  between  the  living  and  the  dead 
in  the  silent  flickering  darkness  of  that  September 
night. 

At  last,  and  he  drew  a  long  breath  as  he  heard  it, 
there  came  a  break  in  the  silence,  a  footfall  on  the 
stone  stairway.  No  lackey's  foot  nor  wench's,  but 
one  that,  in  its  firm  assuredness,  proclaimed  its  cer- 
tainty of  welcome,  and  as  the  noisy  echo  broke  into 
the  Seigneur's  reverie  he  turned  himself  on  the 
settle  and  waited,  watching  the  black  hollow  where 
lay  the  last  curve  of  the  steps. 

But  for  all  that  the  tread  was  as  firm  and  arrogant 
as  his  own  it  differed  from  the  Seigneur's  in  that 
there  was  no  clank  of  steel  from  stair  to  stair.  That 
he  wore  no  sword  meant  one  of  three  things — the 
man  was  either  a  servant,  a  citizen  of  the  humbler 
sort,  or  a  churchman,  though  there  were  times  when 
even  the  two  former  buckled  on  steel  like  their  bet- 
ters and  five  times  out  of  seven  a  priest  was  no 
man  of  peace.  The  bold  assumption  of  equality  in 
the  tread  gave  the  lie  to  the  two  first ;  neither  lackey 
nor  burgher  tramped  the  corridors  of  Lhoeac  in 


4  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

such  a  fashion  !  The  new-comer,  therefore,  was  an 
ecclesiastic.  . 

"What  news,  brother?"  cried  the  Seigneur,  rising 
to  meet  his  fellow-shadow  half-way  ;  "  is  the  pother 
ended  ?  By  the  Saints !  but  this  coming  into  the 
world  is  a  plaguey  slow  business." 

"  Well  may  it  be  so ! "  answered  the  priest, 
"  since  afterwards  the  biding  in  the  world  and  the 
leaving  of  it  are  both  tiresome  enough  at  times. 
But  there  is  no  news  save  evil  news.  The  girl  lies 
as  she  has  lain  these  four  hours,  and  the  outlook  is 
as  dark  as  your  own  stairway.  Have  you  a  design 
upon  my  neck,  Guy,  that  you  do  not  show  as  much 
as  a  rush-light  to  warn  a  man  from  the  gaps  in  the 
stairs?  I  stumbled  at  the  turn  where  there  is  more 
slope  than  flat,  and  a  Lhoeac  was  like  to  have  gone 
out  of  life  the  same  hour  that  another  entered." 

"  Chut,  chut,"  said  the  Seigneur  impatiently,  tak- 
ing the  other  by  the  arm  as  he  spoke.  "  The 
wenches  troubled  me  with  their  fumbling  and  the 
dark  mated  with  my  mood.  Thou  fall !  I  never 
knew  a  churchman  yet  but  could  feel  his  way  in  the 
dark,  and  keep  his  feet  however  slippery  the  path. 
But  the  other  is  serious.  If  they  hurt  the  child,  by 
Saint  Agnes  of  Lhoeac  they  shall  suffer  for  it,  all 
three !  both  dame,  leech,  and  frocked  priest.  Tut, 
what  dost  thou  care  for  a  priest  or  two  ?  Let  us 
walk,  Henri ;  the  fever  of  the  march  is  in  my  blood 
to-night.  'Tis  tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  with  me  ;  and 
for  all  that  my  journey  is  so  near  an  end  I  cannot 
rest  until  he  who  shall  come  after  me  is  set  fairly 
on  his  way. 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  5 

"  Think  what  it  means,  Henri,"  he  went  on,  beat- 
ing the  air  with  his  arm  as  he  walked,  the  other 
arm  crooked  in  his  brother's  elbow.  "The  last 
Lhoeac  mishandled  by  a  drunken  midwife !  By 
Saint  Agnes,  she  should  hang,  she  should  certainly 
hang,  and  without  pity." 

"  And  what  of  the  mishandling  of  the  mother  ?  " 

"  The  mother,  the  mother  !  "  he  answered.  "  Oh  ! 
the  mother  may  fend  for  herself.  She  is  none  of 
Lhoeac's,  and  no  soul  here  wanted  her.  But  for 
Raoul's  folly  in  Italy  we  should  have  had  a  stout 
Guiennese  to  mother  the  last  Lhoeac  ;  or  a  damsel 
of  Beam.  Aye,  Beam  would  have  pleased  me  well  : 
they  breed  good  dames  in  Beam.  But  Italy  !  Italy  ! 
I  had  as  lief  it  had  been  Spain  !  The  Saints  give 
me  patience  with  Italy,  for  I  have  none  of  my 
own !  A  pest  upon  their  weakling  maidens !  A 
cold  wind  withers  them.  Let  the  pools  go  crisp» 
as  they  will  of  a  winter's  night,  and  they  shiver 
and  grow  peakish  like  a  blasted  flower.  A  pest 
upon  Italy,  I  say !  Let  a  man  philander  there  an' 
he  will,  but  let  him  marry  north.  'Tis  the  reverse 
of  our  proverb:  '  Boast  of  the  mountains,  but  keep 
thou  to  the  valleys.'  Boast  of  the  south  if  you  will, 
say  I,  but  cleave  to  the  north,  and  chiefly  when  it 
comes  to  the  wenches.  Eh,  brother,  eh,  is  that  not 
sober  truth  ?  But  let  that  go — what  does  a  priest 
know  of  such  things?" 

"Yet  Raoul  loved  her?" 

"  Loved  ?  loved  ?  Say  worshipped,  man,  say 
worshipped  ;  and  see  what  came  of  it  in  the  end. 


6  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

A  petty  quarrel  about  the  Lord  knows  what  of  fool, 
ishness,  a  paltry  bickering  that  healthy,  cool,  care- 
less blood  had  minded  not  a  jot,  and  off  he  went 
north  to  fight  King  Louis'  battles.  A  man's  a  fool 
who  is  a  lover  a  week  after  the  wedding-day.  See 
what  carrre  of  it,  I  say  again.  The  king's  battles, 
no  less.  Aye,  and  he  fought  them  well.  That  was 
ever  a  trick  of  Lhoeac.  There  at  Guinegate  he 
rode  a  short  pike's  length  behind  Crevecceur,  when 
they  scattered  the  Austrian  Archduke's  cavalry 
like  chaff  in  a  north  wind !  Not  a  scratch  came  of 
it.  Henri,  had  he  died  then  I  could  have  given 
God  thanks  that  Lhoeac  upheld  the  fame  of  Lhoeac 
even  to  the  death.  That,  too,  was  ever  a  trick  of 
Lhoeac.  But  no,  but  no,  he  came  through  the 
mad  riot  of  the  hurly-burly  without  scathe  and 
must  needs  fall  in  the  Lord  knows  what  petty  fray 
in  Angoumois:  a  wine-house  brawl  about  sour  drink 
if  report  speaks  true,  a  wine-house  brawl,  no  more, 
no  less.  To  think  of  it  is  like  the  turning  of  a 
dagger  in  a  wound.  A  fool's  quarrel  over  wine- 
dregs  left  Lhoeac  soulless,  kinless,  and  without  a 
living  branch  ;  for  you,  brother,  being  a  priest,  are 
already  as  good  as  dead.  Then  comes  young 
Madame  with  her  tale  of  an  heir  to  Lhoeac,  and 
here  are  we  this  night  left  hanging  these  hours  on 
the  will  of  a  wench  whether  the  stout  old  line  shall 
live  or  die." 

"  And  yet,  in  this  hour  of  her  trial,  when  they 
send  for  us  presently,  brother,  you  will  speak  softly 
to  her?  She  has  been  in  heavy  grief  for  Raoul, 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  7 

poor  soul,  and  the  suffering  has  worn  the  spirit's 
veil  of  flesh  to  a  shadow." 

"  And  have  I  not  sorrowed  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  and  the  priest  drew  the  other's  arm 
closer  to  him.  "  But  the  young  suffer  more  than 
the  old,  and " 

"  And  they  forget  sooner,  and  so  the  balance 
swings  even,"  broke  in  de  Lhoeac  roughly.  "  In 
three  years  she  will  be  all  eyes  and  blushes  for  the 

Lord  knows  who ;  while  I But  what  is  the  girl 

to  you  that  you  make  so  many  excuses  for  her  all 
of  a  sudden  ?  While  Raoul  was  here  you  sang  a 
different  note.  Ha!  by  the  Lord!  I  see,  I  see. 
Thou  hast  thirty  years  the  better  of  me  in  age,  and 
by  way  of  being  the  wench's  friend  wouldst  put 
thy  hand  on  Lhoeac  that  his  reverence  the  Canon 
of  Mont-de-Mersan  may  build  a  road  to  a  bishop's 
seat,  aye,  or  even  a  cardinal's  for  thou  hast  the  am- 
bition of  the  devil.  My  wit  is  not  so  grey  but  that 
it  feels  thy  aspirations  under  thy  smoothness  as 
one  does  the  claws  of  a  cat  in  the  fur  of  her  soft 
paws.  Well,"  he  went  on,  as  the  other  made  no 
answer  save  a  swift  upward  glance  in  the  dark,  "  I 
blame  no  man  who  climbs,  if  he  but  climb  honestly 
and  with  clean  hands.  Only,  look  you,"  and  stop- 
ping in  his  march  he  swung  the  other  facing  him, 
"  look  you,  Henri,  if  aught  happen  the  boy  through 
you,  then  may  a  curse  light  upon  you,  though  you 
be  priest,  bishop,  cardinal,  and  brother  in  one." 

"What  should  happen  to  him?"  answered  the 
other  drily  ;  "  cross  no  bridges,  my  dear  lord,  until 
you  come  to  them." 


8  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  Aye,"  and  with  a  sigh  de  Lhoeac  turned  again 
across  the  room,  "  but  when  the  time  of  bridges 
comes  I  shall  be  at  rest  with  the  Lhoeacs  of  long 
ago — pray  God  I  be  at  rest — and  thou  wilt  be 
left." 

"  Be  sure,"  said  the  priest  earnestly,  "  that 
Lhoeac  shall  suffer  no  loss,  no  waste,  no  diminish- 
ing, through  me." 

"  Lhoeac?  no,  because  thou  wilt  be  Lhoeac,  and 
so  may  be  trusted  to  see  to  thine  own  safe  keeping 
and  aggrandisement.  Trust  you  for  that.  That 
is  another  of  thy  crooked  sayings,  and  has  a  double 
edge.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  call  God  to  witness 
that  the  curse  stands." 

The  great  log  upon  the  hearth  had  slowly  charred 
through  to  the  very  centre  and  fallen  in,  and  the 
short  outburst  of  flames  which  followed  the  crash 
had  sunk  into  a  red  and  sullen  glow.  The  shadows 
no  longer  capered  and  swung  upon  roof,  pillar,  and 
arras,  but  grew  denser  and  blacker  in  their  set  places 
as  the  white  film  of  ash  cooled  across  the  hot  face  of 
the  embers.  The  soundless  life  which  had  haunted 
the  great  hall  had  sobered  into  stillness,  and  the 
only  shadows  which  moved  were  the  two  grey  figures 
that  walked  the  time-worn  flags  in  silence. 

The  old  Lord  of  Lhoeac — a  baron  of  seven  genera- 
tions and  of  the  creation  of  Saint  Louis  himself — was 
the  taller  of  the  two  by  a  full  head:  nor  were  the 
brothers  alike  in  a  single  point  save  those  of  stern 
eyes,  hooked  nose,  and  strong  square  chin.  Each 
in  his  own  way  was  a  hard  man,  but  with  this  differ- 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  9 

ence :  pride  of  race  and  love  of  the  Seigneurie  over 
which  he  reigned,  ruled  and  spurred  the  elder,  while 
Henri,  Canon  of  Mont-de-Mersan,  was  bondslave  to 
greed  of  place  and  power :  his  pride  rather  that  which 
he  would  be  than  what  he  was. 

"  Let  there  be  no  talk  of  curse  between  us  two," 
said  he,  breaking  the  silence  at  last,  and  laying  a 
firm  white  hand  upon  the  other's  shoulder.  "  I 
would  there  were  ten  Lhoeacs  instead  of  this  one  frail 
life  which  seems  so  loth  to  come  into  the  world  that 
a  man  might  say  it  had  some  foreknowledge  of  its 
sorrows.  What  shall  be  its  name,  Guy  ?  But  I  sup- 
pose the  mother  may  have  something  to  say  to 
that ! " 

"Themother?  Oh  !  the  mother ?  By  my  faith  ! 
I  think  I  see  the  mother  setting  her  will  against 
mine.  The  child  is  Lhoeac's,  and  Lhoeac  shall  name 
its  own  as  it  pleases,  though  all  the  demoiselles  in 
Italy  said  no !  We  shall  follow  the  ancient  custom 
For  nine  generations  it  has  been  thus  with  us:  Guy, 
son  to  Raoul,  son  to  Guy,  son  to  Raoul,  and  so 
downward.  The  child  follows  his  grandsire,  and 
so  the  thing  is  settled;  his  name  shall  be  Guy." 

"  But,  my  dear  lord,  though  the  mother  be  silent, 
nature  may  have  a  word  to  say.  It  may  be  a  girl 
and  so — 

"  Peste  !  Plague  take  your  may-be's  and  your 
girls  too.  A  girl  ?  A  girl  ?  Then  let  the  mother 
name  the  baggage,  an'  welcome  ;  but  God  send  us  no 
wenches.  But  for  the  heir  that  is  coming  there  is 
already  one  wench  too  many  in  Lhoeac  !  A  girl 


io  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

Here  I  vow  to  Saint  Agnes  of  Lhoeac  three  silver 
candlesticks  if  only " 

"  You  may  spare  your  vows,  my  lord  and  brother," 
said  the  priest;  "  the  event  is  past  praying  for  ;  and 
if  all  be  not  right  you  may  take  the  word  of  the 
church  that  not  even  three  silver  candlesticks,  no, 
nor  three  Saint  Agneses  either,  will  work  the  miracle. 
But,"  and  he  turned  towards  the  hollow  of  the  stair- 
way,  "  I  will  wager  these  same  three — the  candle- 
sticks, not  the  saints — that aye,  hearken  :  the  old 

dame  has  found  her  legs  as  she  has  never  found  them 
these  ten  years  past." 

Along  the  corridor  above  could  be  heard  the 
quick  patter  of  running  feet  not  too  softly  shod ; 
no  light  tread,  but  the  clumsy  footfalls  of  unaccus- 
tomed lumbering  haste.  Then  came  the  clatter  of 
wooden  heels  on  the  stairs,  growing  slower  and 
slower  as  the  gloom  thickened,  and  finally  the 
rustling  fumble  of  a  homespun  skirt  dragged  grop- 
ingly along  the  wall. 

"  Saint  send  us  safe  home,"  said  a  wheezy  voice 
in  the  darkness.  "  For  ten  times  three  crowns  I 
would  not — Lord  save  us !  what's  that  ?  Is  there 
not  so  much  as  a  rush-light  in  all  Lhoeac,  and  on 
this  night  of  all  nights  when  there  are  ghosts 
abroad?" 

"  It  is  I,  dame,  the  Seigneur.     What  news  ?" 

"  The  worst,"  answered  she,  clinging  to  the  wall 
and  still  panting  between  haste  and  fear,  "  the 
worst,  and  the  truth's  the  truth  whether  we  like  it 
or  no,  and  so  best  told.  Young  Madame " 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  11 

"Aye,  aye,  young  Madame  can  bide.  We  have 
waited  on  her  long  enough,  and  'tis  our  turn  now. 
What  of  the  child  ?  " 

"  There  is  little  biding  for  young  Madame,  poor 
lamb.  For  four-and-twenty  years  have  I " 

"  Aye,  aye,  but  the  child,  woman,  the  child  ? 
Mordieu,  wouldst  have  me  shake  the  news  out  of 
you  ?  What  of  him  ?  " 

"  The  child  is  well  enough,  Monseigneur,  and 
when  it  has  starved  five  hours  according  to  rule  it 
will  drink  its  milk  like  a  calf  :  no  fear  for  the  child. 
God  grant  young  Madame  see  daylight ;  'tis  the 
priest  she  needs  now  ;  the  leech  can  do  no  more,  and 
I'm  thinking  the  Father  who  was  with  her  knows 
more  of  simples  than  consolation." 

"  You  hear,  Henri,  you  hear  ?  The  boy  thrives  : 
he  is  a  true  son  of  Lhoeac,  and  the  old  house  has 
caught  fresh  wind  for  the  race.  Oh,  God,  I  thank 
thee  !  Saint  Agnes,  I  give  thee  praise  !  Hence- 
forth this  shall  be  a  day  of  daysf  for  a  man  child  is 
sprung  from  the  spent  stock  of  Lhoeac.  Here  on 
my  knees " 

"  A  man  child  ?  "  she  broke  in  quaveringly,  and 
stumbling  forward  as  she  spoke  ;  "  who  said  aught 
of  a  man  child  ?  'Tis  a  girl  babe,  and  the  sweetest 
Guienne  has  seen  this  generation  !  For  the  Lord's 
sake,  see  to  the  Seigneur!  Hold  him,  reverend 
Father,  hold  him!  Hulloa!  You  snails,  you 
sluggards !  quick,  quick,  bring  wine  ;  I  say  bring 
wine,  lest  there  be  two  dead  in  one  night !  God 
help  us !  what  have  we  done  that  life  and  death 


12  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

should  go  so  linked  ?  My  fault,  Father  ?  Oh,  aye, 
'tis  always  the  woman  that's  to  blame !  And  yet 
I  said  no  more  than  the  truth  :  'tis  the  dearest  babe 
in  all  the  Duchy." 

II. 

Into  the  great  hall  of  Lhoeac  there  were  eight 
entrances.  One  the  main  door  opening  into  the 
central  courtyard — a  thing  of  stern  defence,  of 
bolts,  bars,  locks,  and  ponderous  iron  studs,  built 
to  laugh  alike  at  fire  or  the  battering  of  assault. 
One  the  stairway  facing  it  across  the  broad  square 
with  its  double  row  of  triple  pillars,  its  benches, 
tables,  and  scattering  of  skin  rugs ;  four  more  in 
pairs  to  right  and  left  sunk  deep  into  the  side  walls 
and  hung  with  claret-coloured  cloth  of  Rennes 
looped  with  tasselled  cords ;  and  two  through  the 
scantily-lit  corridors  which  swept  round  the  castle 
in  a  horse-shoe  from  the  stairs'  foot — corridors  dank 
and  close  in  winter  time  as  with  the  heavy  atmos- 
phere of  a  vault ;  a  ninth  there  was  in  the  centre 
of  the  floor,  where,  at  a  touch  of  a  hidden  spring, 
a  great  flag  swung  upon  a  pivot,  but  it  was  rather 
an  exit  than  an  entrance,  and  its  gaping  mouth  had 
served  the  wild  justice  of  the  wilder  vengeance  of 
more  than  one  lord  of  Lhoeac. 

When  the  shadow  of  the  eternal  sleep  darkens  a 
household  there  is  commonly  little  room  for  this 
world's  slumber  within  its  doors.  So  was  it  that 
still  September  night  at  Lhoeac.  The  watchfulness 
and  waiting  which  had  their  centre  in  young 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  13 

Madame's  dim  and  silent  chamber  spread  their 
influence  from  Seigneur  to  scullion,  and  no  soul 
lay  down  to  sleep.  Then,  as  always,  the  awesome- 
ness  of  the  great  change  made  for  wakefulness. 

Four  hours  had  passed  since  the  bitter  blow 
dealt  to  de  Lhoeac's  confident  expectation  had 
staggered  him  body  and  mind,  and  the  two  brothers 
had  betaken  themselves  to  the  Seigneur's  smaller 
justice  hall,  an  apartment  facing  the  courtyard  and 
entered  from  the  left  corridor.  There,  when  the 
frailer  elder  had  recovered  himself,  they  had  been 
joined  by  one  who  for  some  time  called  himself 
Messire  Jacopo  Ravelli,  but  who,  by  his  own  show- 
ing, had  in  his  day  borne  many  names. 

A  striking  figure  was  Messire  Jacopo,  one  at 
whom  a  man  having  looked  carelessly  once,  looked 
again  and  yet  again,  baffled  and  curious,  looked 
until  the  furtive  glance  became  a  stare,  and  with 
every  second  the  questionings  would  grow  as  to 
what  manner  of  mind  it  was  that  lay  behind  that 
smooth,  impassive  mask.  Then,  let  the  fascination 
be  broken,  and  Messire  Jacopo  was  no  more  than 
one  of  a  common  score,  save  for  the  waxen  white- 
ness of  a  face  that  was  the  face  of  the  dead  rather 
than  the  quick. 

A  slender,  hard-knit,  sinewy  man  was  Jacopo 
Ravelli,  broad-shouldered,  clean-limbed,  with  hands 
and  feet  small-boned,  long  and  lean ;  manhood  and 
youth  met  in  him  at  their  strongest.  His  black, 
straight  hair  hung  across  his  ears  almost  to  his 
shoulders,  and  being  cut  square  upon  the  forehead, 


14  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

set  the  smooth  and  pallid  face  as  in  a  dull  frame  of 
ebony.  His  chin  was  as  square  as  de  Lhoeac's  own, 
his  lips  as  firm,  but  never,  even  in  the  fire  of  his 
hot  youth — and  Guy  de  Lhoeac  had  lived  hard  and 
known  hot  passions — had  the  Seigneur's  eyes  lit  up 
as  did  those  of  Messire  Jacopo.  As  to  his  dress,  it 
was  plain  to  severeness,  but  a  light  sword  hung  at 
his  left  hip,  and  the  man  had  the  alert  air  and  free 
carriage  of  one  who  could  use  a  blade  at  times,  and 
have  no  fear  that  his  foe  would  shame  him. 

"Sit  you  down,  Henri,"  the  Seigneur  had  said 
while  the  two  were  still  alone,  "  and  set  that  sconce 
at  your  back,  for  this  Ravelli  is  no  common  man, 
and  is  worth  the  watching.  Why  he  is  here  at  a 
time  when  strangers  have  scant  welcome  falls  out 
thus:  In  '64  it  was  my  fortune  to  do  young  Pietro 
della  Rovere — nephew  to  that  Francis  of  Savona 
who  is  now  Pope  and  calls  himself  Sixtus  the 
Fourth — some  little  kindness.  A  nothing,  a  noth- 
ing: no  more  than  soldier  to  soldier;  but  the  lad, 
being  only  a  lad,  was  grateful,  and  even  as  a  man 
has  not  forgotten.  Therefore,  when  I  wrote  him — 
or  rather  Hugo,  my  chaplain — for,  thank  the  Lord, 
I  know  no  more  of  clerk's  work  than  my  dagger- 
manual — when  I  wrote  him,  I  say,  of  the  evil  that 
had  befallen  Lhoeac,  and  the  gossamer  upon  which 
its  promise  hung,  he  must  needs  send  me  this  Ra- 
velli and  a  letter  that  was  Rovere's  own  self  for 
blunt  frankness.  '  Thou  art  old,'  said  he,  '  and  be- 
ing old,  had  best  know  the  good  and  be  warned  of 
the  evil  that  will  befall  the  child  through  the  stars 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  15 

in  their  courses.  Trust  Ravelli  as  thou  wouldst 
myself.'  That  was  four  months  ago,  and  to-day — 
or  was  it  yesterday  ?  for  it  must  be  hard  upon  mid- 
night— at  the  very  prick  of  noon  comes  the  man 
himself.  What  dost  thou  make  of  that,  brother? 
Four  months  of  a  blank,  and  then  to  come  at  the 
tick  of  time  !  To  me  it  smells  of  the  fiend." 

"The  stars  in  their  courses!"  cried  Henri  de 
Lhoeac,  crossing  the  room  to  where  on  an  oaken 
buffet  stood  an  array  of  flagons,  and  pouring  out  a 
goblet  of  wine  with  a  hand  that  shook  in  spite  of 
his  self-control.  "  A  charlatan !  a  cheat !  What 
hath  a  Christian  man  to  do  with  black  magic  ?" 

But  the  Seigneur  shook  his  head. 

"  No  charlatan,  no  cheat.  What  ?  are  the  della 
Roveres  fools  ?  and  would  his  Holiness  join  hands 
with  the  devil  ?  That  were  a  pretty  scandal !  For, 
trust  me,  this  Jacopo  Ravelli  is  linked  to  Sixtus  him- 
self, and  closely.  More  than  that.  When  a  man  is 
in  straits,  as  I  am,  he  must  needs  take  what  help 
comes  to  his  hand  and  not  question  its  whence  or 
its  wherefore  too  nicely.  What,  man  ?  Wouldst 
thou  not  clutch  a  bishopric,  aye,  and  with  both 
hands !  even  though  it  was  the  devil's  claw  that 
hooked  it  to  thee?  Thou  knowest  thou  wouldst, 
and  never  boggle  at  it !  And  when  was  Lhoeac 
sharper  pressed  than  now?  With  nought  but  a  girl 
babe  and  an  outworn  grandsire  between  it  and  ruin  !  " 

"  And  do  I,"  demanded  the  other,  setting  down 
his  cup  which  he  had  filled  twice,  and  returning  to 
his  place  by  the  hearth,  "do  I  count  for  nothing?" 


16  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  By  your  leave,  or  without  your  leave,"  replied 
the  Seigneur,  looking  across  moodily  at  the  priest, 
"  you  are,  as  I  told  you,  as  good  as  dead,  and  there 
are  times  when  a  man  fears  the  dead  more  than  he 
fears  the  living.  For,  look  you,  you  know  the 
length  of  the  arm  of  the  one  ;  but  who  can  forecast 
the  power  of  the  other  ?  Let  this  Italian's  message 
but  guide  me  for  the  guiding  of  Lhoeac  and  I  shall 
thank  him  whether  it  comes  of  the  blackest  magic 
that  ever  dripped  sulphur  or  is  the  very  inspiration 
of  heaven." 

With  that  Jacopo  Ravelli  had  joined  them,  bear- 
ing himself  with  that  mingling  of  courtesy  and 
assurance  which  alone  come  of  long  rubbing 
shoulders  with  the  great  upon  equal  terms. 

"  It  is  four  months,"  began  de  Lhoeac  sternly, 
"  since  the  Marchese  Pietro  wrote  me  of  your  com- 
ing." 

"  To  be  too  soon  is  not  to  be  in  time,"  replied 
Ravelli.  "  To-night  I  am  required,  and  to-night  I 
am  here." 

"  Aye,  aye ;  but  what  if " 

"If!  if!  "he  broke  in.  "Oh,  believe  me,  Mon- 
sieur, I  am  not  here  to  bandy  ifs.  There  are  no  ifs 
to  the  man  who  knows." 

"Then  since  thou  knowest  so  much,"  said  the 
priest  sharply  and  eyeing  the  Italian  with  profound 
disfavour,  "  doubtless  thou  also  knowest  why  thou 
art  here?  " 

"  Doubtless.  The  reason  is  this  :  there  is  a  child 
born,  and  the  Baron  de  Lhoeac  would  have  the 
stars  read." 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  17 

"  That  della  Rovere  told  thee  ?  " 

"You  asked  me,  Monsieur  le  Canon  de  Mont-de- 
Mersan,  and  I  have  answered." 

"And  can  you  do  this?"  cried  the  Seigneur 
eagerly,  and  motioning  his  brother  to  be  silent. 

"  I  can  read  a  little  of  what  God  Almighty 
writes,"  replied  Ravelli  soberly,  and  with  no  note 
of  pride  in  his  voice,  but  rather  a  gentle  humility, 
"  a  little,  a  very  little — a  word  here  and  there,  no 
more  ;  and  the  book  is  great,  as  needs  must  that  it 
be  great  with  such  an  Author." 

"  So !  "  said  the  priest,  smiling  contemptuously. 
"  Thou  art  a  prophet  ?  " 

But  the  other  shook  his  head. 

"  No  prophet,  but  a  groping  translator  of  God's 
eternal  truth.  You  read  the  clouds,  the  winds,  and 
say,  thus  and  thus  it  shall  be  to-morrow.  I  probe 
deeper  into  the  heart  of  the  mysteries  :  that  is  all. 
Give  me  my  instructions,  Seigneur,  that  I  may  do 
that  for  which  I  came,  and  return  to  him  that  sent 
me." 

"  Why  ?     What  haste  is  there,  man  ?  " 

"  There  is  the  world's  work  to  be  done,  and  he 
who  bears  not  his  own  share  of  the  burden  at  the  time 
and  in  the  place  where  the  burden  should  be  borne 
shifts  it  to  another's  shoulders  ;  or  worse,  it  is  left 
undone  for  need  of  him,  and  the  generation  suffers." 

"  By  Saint  Agnes  !  a  second  providence  !  "  cried 
the  priest,  beating  his  hands  together  softly. 
"  The  world's  work,  i'  faith  !  Dost  thou  bear  up 
the  pillars  of  the  universe?" 


i8  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  To  every  one  his  share,"  answered  the  Italian 
quietly;  "and  woe  to  the  man,  aye,  and  to  the 
church  too,  that  offers  no  shoulder  to  the  burden." 

"What?  Sir  Wizard,  the  church?  the  church? 
Art  thou  ribald  ?  " 

"  Hold  thy  peace,  Henri,"  broke  in  the  Seigneur 
authoritatively,  "  and  do  you,  Messire  Ravelli, 
attend  to  the  work  in  hand.  Give  me  instructions 
you  said  a  moment  since  :  how  can  we  instruct  you 
who  are  here  to  instruct  us  ?  " 

"To  each  workman  his  tools,"  replied  Ravelli. 
"  In  my  long-vanished  but  unforgotten  Egyptian 
days  we  sought  to  compel  the  men  of  Goshen  to 
make  bricks  without  straw,  and  evil  came  of  it. 
But  we  learn  wisdom  from  our  failures." 

"Egyptian!"  echoed  Henri  de  Lhoeac ;  "art 
thou  of  Egypt,  then  ?  " 

"  Once,"  replied  the  other  curtly,  "  but  that  was 
long  ago.  Tell  me,  Seigneur,  the  hour,  the  second 
of  the  child's  birth.  That  is  the  seed  from  which 
grows  the  tree  of  knowledge." 

"And  hast  thou,  perchance,"  said  Henri  de 
Lhoeac  sarcastically,  "  the  tree  of  life  also  ready  to 
thy. hand  ?" 

"  It  is  an  offshoot  from  the  roots  of  knowledge," 
answered  Ravelli,  eyeing  the  priest  coldly,  "  and  I 
who  have  eaten  of  the  fruit  of  both  know  that  it  is 
the  least  blest  of  the  two.  But  my  answer,  Seig- 
neur?" 

"That  you  must  ask  dame  Therese,  Messire;  I 
shall  have  her  called." 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  19 

*'  No,  no,  no  ;  by  your  leave,  Seigneur,  I  will  find 
her  out  myself.  I  fear  that  between  life  and  death 
the  dame  is  sore  bestead  to-night,  and  it  would  be 
a  sour  kindness  to  give  her  old  bones  an  added 
labour." 

"  What  ?  "  said  the  priest,  his  hard  mouth  curling 
to  a  sneer.  "  So  learned,  and  yet  so  sympathetic  !  " 

"  Being  old  myself,  Sir  Canon,  I  feel  for  the 
aged." 

"  Thou  old  ?  Why,  man,  thou  art  younger  than 
I,  and  I  count  myself  but  in  my  prime." 

"  I  reckon  by  thought,  sorrow,  labours,  you 

by ,  and  yet,  and  yet,"  and  Jacopo  Ravelli's 

eyes  glowed  beneath  the  heavy  thatch  of  his  brows, 
"  my  years  are  no  mean  number,  Monsieur  le  Canon 
de  Mont-de-Mersan.  Give  me  till  midnight,  Seig- 
neur, then  I  shall  tell  my  message  and  begone." 

While  the  Astrologer's  footsteps  echoed  down  the 
empty  passage-way  the  brothers  stood  in  silence, 
one  on  either  side  of  the  smouldering  fire.  It  was 
the  younger  who  broke  the  stillness. 

"  Did  I  not  say  he  was  a  charlatan  and  a  cheat?  " 
he  cried,  striking  with  his  open  hand  the  edge  of 
the  mantel  by  which  he  stood.  "  I  marvel,  Guy, 
that  you  had  patience  with  the  fellow's  cheap 
solemnities  and  quackish  parade  of  learning.  Egypt 
forsooth  and  men  of  Goshen  !  Now  who,  in  the 
name  of  sense,  were  the  men  of  Goshen  ?  Such  talk 
is  the  market  patter  of  the  mountebank." 

"  Patience  was  at  least  no  fault  of  thine,  Henri  ; 
no,  nor  courtesy  either.  That  one  of  us  should  bait 


20  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

him  was  enough.     Besides,  he  is  vouched  for  by 
della  Rovere,  and  I  hold  him  honest." 

"Honest?  A  specious,  cunning  rogue,  say  I; 
and  if  I  know  less  of  camps  than  thou,  brother,  I 
know  more  of  men.  Tis  not  in  the  jostle  of  arms 
that  one  learns  men.  No,  it  is  in  the  city  street, 
the  cunning  of  the  mart,  aye,  even  in  the  cloister, 
that  such  a  book  is  best  read.  I  will  wager  that  he 
revenges  my  sifting  of  his  pretensions  by  setting 
thee  against  me." 

"  He  is  vouched  for  by  della  Rovere,"  repeated 
the  Seigneur,  "  and  for  the  present  I  trust  him. 
Gibe  as  thou  wilt,  I  can  tell  a  cheat  as  soon  as 
thou." 

That  had  been  four  hours  before,  and  thence- 
forward there  had  been  little  talk  between  the 
brothers.  Yet,  for  all  that,  the  time  had  not  hung 
heavily.  It  is  a  mistake  to  think  that  joy  alone  can 
spur  the  hours.  Let  a  man's  thought  be  but  bitter 
enough  and  time  flies  as  on  wings  of  light ;  and, 
verily,  both  had  their  sorrows  to  nurse — the  Seigneur 
that  his  hopes  were  doomed,  hopes  that  in  his  aged 
optimism  he  had  fed  and  nourished  until  they  had 
grown  to  stout  certainties.  Now,  being  a  man  of 
action  and  wit,  and  not  given  to  biting  his  own 
fingers,  needs  must  that  he  seek  to  build  his  house 
anew  out  of  its  broken  fragments.  Henri  de  Lhoeac 
had  a  different,  and  yet  no  less  weighty  cause  of  dis- 
quietude. A  churchman  by  ambition,  and  caring 
little  for  either  faith  or  creed,  his  ignorance  held 
Jacopo  Ravelli  in  uneasy  dread.  His  vocation  was 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  21 

his  ladder,  and  since  Raoul's  death  he  had  looked 
to  Lhoeac  to  help  him  in  his  climbing.  What  if 
this  mystic  was  no  charlatan,  but  a  man  infinitely 
wiser  than  himself,  and  one  who  could  indeed  read 
with  clear  eyes  the  book  of  men's  lives  and  so  lay 
bare  thoughts  and  purposes  he  had  never  yet  dared 
set  naked  even  before  his  own  soul  ?  There,  truly, 
was  food  for  thought,  and  so  Henri  de  Lhoeac 
sat  staring  at  the  fire,  his  brows  knit  and  his  eyes 
seeing  nothing  of  the  embers  whitening  before  them. 

III. 

It  was  Jacopo  Ravelli  who  broke  in  upon  their 
thoughts.  As  his  approaching  footsteps  rang  along 
the  corridor  the  brothers  started,  and  their  eyes  met 
with  the  one  distrustful  questioning  in  both,  but 
neither  spoke  until  the  Astrologer  had  silently  let 
the  curtain  fall  behind  him.  In  his  hand  he  carried 
a  small  square  of  parchment. 

"  Well  ?  "  cried  the  Seigneur,  rising  stiffly  to  his 
feet  and  passing  a  shaking  hand  across  his  mouth 
and  beard.  "  Is  it  good  or  evil  ?  " 

"  Is  there  a  life  without  both  ? "  replied  the 
Italian.  "  I  mean  no  offence,  Seigneur,  but  even 
the  house  of  Lhoeac  must  share  the  common  lot." 

"A  truce  to  platitudes,"  struck  in  the  Canon. 
"  Delia  Rovere  did  not  send  thee  all  these  leagues 
to  talk  hornbook.  What  the  Seigneur  de  Lhoeac 
means — and  thou  knowest  it — is,  is  the  child  in 
danger?" 

"The  answer  is  there,"  replied  Ravelli,  laying  the 


22  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

parchment  on  the  table   which  filled  the  centre  of 
the  room. 

"  Here  ?  "  said  the  Seigneur,  lifting  it  impatiently 
and  twisting  it  from  side  to  side  as  he  bent  over  it. 
"Why,  this — this  is  nought  but  hieroglyphics. 
Tis  liker  a  plan  in  fortifications  than  aught  else. 
Here  we  have  what  might  be  the  fort,  and  central 
parallelogram  with  angles,  bastions,  demilunes,  and 
the  Lord  knows  what  else  abutting  on  its  sides. 
Do  you  play  with  us,  Messire  Ravelli  ?  God's  life! 
man,  not  even  Rovere  himself  should  save  your 
skin  from  such  an  ill-timed  jest !  " 

"  'Tis  the  tool  of  the  workman,  my  lord  ;  or,  to 
use  your  own  word,  which  is  apposite  enough,  a 
plan  ;  but  a  plan  of  the  fort  of  life  besieged  and  de- 
fended. By  your  leave,  Seigneur." 

Taking  the  parchment  into  his  own  hands, 
Ravelli  spread  it  upon  the  table  and  laid  his  finger 
on  the  triangle  to  the  left  of  the  central  figure. 

"  Follow  now  what  I  say,  and  believe  me  I  will 
waste  no  words.  This  is  the  house  of  the  Ascen- 
dant ;  in  the  child's  case  'tis  the  sign  Virgo  ruled 
by  Mercury,  and  its  lord  is  posited  in  the  third 
decanate.  Mars  is  in  conjunction  in  the  same  house, 
and  the  promise  is  good.  Here,"  and  he  moved  his 
finger  downwards,  "  is  Venus  but  newly  entered  in- 
to the  second  house,  and  in  trine  to  the  sun  and 
moon  in  the  sixth  and  tenth,  and  again  the  promise 
is  good.  The  cadent,  or  third  house,  and  the  two 
that  follow,"  and  his  finger  swept  to  the  right  until 
it  halted  at  the  corresponding  angle  of  the  parallel©- 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  23 

gram,  "  are  void  ;  but  here,  in  a  house  of  the  des- 
cendant, that  of  the  feeble  Aquarius,  and  therefore 
in  his  own  detriment,  is  the  sun.  Saturn  is  in  op- 
position, and  the  promise  is  evil." 

Again  his  finger  moved,  skirting  the  side  of  the 
parallelogram.  This  time  the  motion  was  upward 
till  it  passed  the  upper  right-hand  angle,  and  turn- 
ing to  the  left  halted  in  the  triangle  that  crowned 
the  figure.  "  The  tenth  house  Medium  Coeli :  Mid- 
heaven.  It  is  the  day  house  of  Mercury,  and  in  it 
is  the  moon  in  trine  to  Venus  and  the  sun ;  the 
promise  is  good.  Next,"  and  his  finger  moved  to 
the  left,  crossing  the  line  that  separated  the  tri- 
angles, "  is  the  eleventh  house,  and  in  it  Cancer,  a 
malevolent  sign,  and  throned  there  is  Jupiter,  a 
gracious  planet  that  in  part  corrects  the  evil. 
Now,"  and  he  drew  his  hand  downwards  to  the 
left,  "  we  come  to  the  twelfth  and  last  house.  It 
bears  the  sign  of  Leo,  and  in  it  is  Saturn  ;  the 
promise  is  evil,  and  the  evil  is  strengthened  by  the 
sun  in  opposition.  These,  Seigneur,  are  the  teach- 
ings of  the  stars,  and  for  good  or  for  evil  they  are 
written  across  the  heavens." 

Straightening  himself,  Jacopo  Ravelli  stepped 
back  a  pace  or  two  from  the  table,  while  in  his 
turn  the  younger  Lhoeac  snatched  up  the  parch- 
ment and  scanned  the  tracings  closely. 

"  Did  I  not  say  it  ?  A  mountebank's  jargon,  a 
strolling  cheapjack's  easy  patter,"  he  cried;  "a 
bushel  of  words  without  so  much  as  even  a  grain  of 
sense.  Pay  the  fellow  his  fee,  my  lord,  and  let  him 


24  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

carry  his  pretensions  to  whosoever  will  swallow 
them  :  here  they  stick  in  the  throat." 

But  the  Seigneur  shook  his  head. 

"Thy  heat  is  ill-timed  and  ill-judged,"  he  said 
slowly.  "  To  me  monkish  Latin  as  they  gabble  it 
at  the  Mass  is  so  much  gibberish,  yet  God 
Almighty  hears  and  understands  the  church's 
prayers,  or  else  what  becomes  of  us  ?  If  I  reviled 
Fra  Hugo  as  a  fool  for  his  praying,  the  folly  would 
be  mine,  not  his.  Wait,  Henri ;  this,  too,  may 
have  a  meaning  for  all  its  disjointed  patter  of  signs 
and  planets  and  houses  and  the  Lord  knows  what 
all.  Is  it  not  so,  Messire?" 

"  Three  nations  have  perished  in  the  making  of 
the  wisdom,"  replied  the  Italian,  returning  to  his 
place  by  the  table.  "  Monsieur  le  Canon  de  Mont- 
de-Mersan  were  a  wise  man  indeed  if  in  the  fillip  of  a 
finger  and  thumb  he  had  plumbed  the  laborious  and 
slow-built  learning  of  Chaldea,  Assyria,  and  Egypt." 

"Translate,  then,  Messire,"  and  taking  the 
parchment  from  his  brother's  grasp,  the  Seigneur 
handed  it  to  Ravelli.  "  Delia  Rovere  bade  me 
trust  you  as  I  would  himself,  and  trust  him  I  would 
to  the  death.  Trust  begets  truth  in  a  true  man, 
Signer  Ravelli ;  you  understand?  " 

"  Trust  begets  truth,"  returned  Ravelli  gravely 
laying  the  horoscope  once  more  flat  upon  the  table. 
"  And  what  della  Rovere  set  his  pledge  to  I  will 
redeem.  Listen,  then : 

"The  ascending  sign  in  the  House  of  Life  is  that 
of  Virgo  ;  the  child,  therefore,  will  be  chaste,  hope- 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  25 

ful,  strong  in  fortitude  under  difficulties.  To  these 
qualities  the  ruler  of  the  house  in  the  third  decan- 
ate  adds  shrewdness ;  while  the  sun  in  Aquarius 
assures  that  the  intuition  which  is  a  sure  judge  of 
men  and  women.  In  this  first  house  is  also  the 
fiery  Mars,  but  over  all  his  harassments  and  stress 
of  war  will  be  spread  coolness  and  foresight.  Mars 
is  a  sword  to  smite,  but  his  edge  is  blunted.  That, 
Seigneur,  is  the  lesson  of  the  House  of  Life. 

"  Turn  now  to  the  second  house,"  and  Ravelli's 
finger  travelled  downwards  as  at  the  first.  "  This  is 
the  last  ascending  house,  and  is  the  House  of 
Wealth.  The  foundations  of  the  child's  fortunes 
are  laid  and  protected  by  Venus,  the  sun,  and  the 
moon ;  that  is  to  say,  by  love,  power,  and  thought. 
These  are  in  trine  or  equal-sided  triangle,  which, 
being  the  form  of  the  pyramid,  is  the  symbol  of 
eternal  strength.  Happy  the  life  that  is  so  but- 
tressed. The  third  house,  which  is  that  of  Breth- 
ren ;  the  fourth,  of  Kindred ;  and  the  fifth,  of 
Children,  are  negative.  That  these,  Seigneur,  are 
without  promise  of  good  is  itself  a  menace,  since  to 
lack  the  love,  service,  and  watchfulness  of  these  is 
an  unspeakable  weakness.  When  the  Lord  God 
spread  His  teachings  in  the  heavens  He  gave  men 
wit  to  read  them,  and  the  silence  of  God  is  an 
awful  and  portentous  thing ;  and  let  those  who 
have  the  care  of  the  child  heed  well  the  warning. 

"  Now,"  and  his  finger  rested  to  the  right,  and 
below  the  angle  of  the  central  figure,  "  come  we  to 
Aquarius,  which  is  the  sign  in  the  sixth  house, 


26  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

being  the  second  house  of  the  descendant.  Here, 
also,  is  the  sun,  the  symbol  of  strength  and  power ; 
his  rays  quenched,  and  with  yet  two  more  houses 
of  the  descendant  to  pass  through.  There  is 
danger,  Seigneur,  danger  imminent  and  great.  But 
this  is  the  House  of  Health,  and  with  the  power  of 
the  sun  within  it  there  is  no  fear  for  the  child  upon 
this  score.  The  danger  is  from  without,  not  from 
within,  and  the  key  lies  in  this — the  houses  of 
Brethren,  Religion,  and  Enemies  are  in  square,  and 
the  square  is  as  evil  as  the  trine  is  good.  Next 
lies  the  House  of  Marriage,  where  night  and  day 
meeting  merge  in  one.  It  is  void  of  direct  teach- 
ing, but  has  Mars  and  Mercury  in  opposition. 
There  will,  therefore,  at  this  time  of  life,  be  an 
adverse  and  evil  union  of  cunning  and  strength, 
mind  and  force,  power  without  scruple.  In  its  evil 
aspect  Mercury  is  the  very  father  of  lies. 

"  The  eighth  and  ninth  houses  are  also  void  :  the 
one  is  the  House  of  Death,  with  the  planet  of 
woman's  love  at  its  coldest,  so  that  the  shadow  of 
loss  falls  near,  very  near,  the  babe.  The  other  is 
the  House  of  Religion,  and  of  it  there  is  this  to  be 
said  :  Saturn  in  the  twelfth  house  and  the  sun  in 
the  sixth  are  in  square,  and  the  aspect  is  threaten- 
ing :  a  baleful  conjunction  of  the  forces  of  two 
worlds.  Let  the  child,"  and  Ravelli  looked  up  for 
an  instant  full  in  the  face  of  Henri  de  Lhoeac,  "  let 
the  child,  I  say,  beware  of  the  power  of  the  church." 

It  was  but  a  glance,  no  more  ;  then  he  turned  back 
impassively  to  the  diagram,  putting  his  finger  on 
the  tenth  house,  which  he  had  called  Mid-heaven, 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  27 

"  The  House  of  Dignity  and  Honour:  it  is  occu- 
pied by  the  sign  Gemini,  and  in  it  is  the  moon. 
The  planet  is  in  her  growth,  and  if  -but  the  dangers 
of  the  third,  fourth,  seventh,  and  ninth  houses  be 
escaped,  the  child  will  come  to  honour  through 
strength  and  love,  which  are  in  trine.  Last  but  one 
is  the  House  of  Friends,  and  in  it  is  the  planet  of 
beneficent  power.  It  is  the  first  ascending  house, 
and  when  the  time  of  trial  comes  its  influence  will 
be  potent,  counteracting,"  and  he  laid  his  finger  on 
the  triangle  to  the  left  of  the  upper  corner  of  the 
figure,  "the  malevolency  of  Saturn  throned  in  the 
House  of  Enemies — a  malevolency  potent  and  im- 
placable. To  sum  up  all,  Seigneur.  Grave  this 
upon  your  memory  and  teach  it  to  all  those  who 
truly  love  the  fortunes  of  Lhoeac  and  the  life  of 
the  young  child. 

When  priest  or  kin  hath  aught  to  win, 
Then  trust  thou  least  both  kin  and  priest. 

There,  in  a  word,  is  the  message  of  the  stars.' 

Jacopo  Ravelli  had  spoken  throughout  in  the 
level,  measured  tone  of  a  man  whose  mind  is  intent 
upon  the  unfolding  of  a  problem,  and  who,  because 
of  the  concentrations  which  it  demands,  has  a  mind 
vacant  to  all  else.  There  had  been  neither  hesita- 
tion nor  passion ;  simply  the  cold  statement  of 
comprehending  knowledge.  These  things  were  so 
because  they  were  so,  and  there  was  no  room  for 
question,  heat,  pause,  or  deviation.  Then,  having 
finished,  he  bowed  to  the  Seigneur,  pushed  the 


28  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

parchment  from  him  as  if  to  say,  "  It  is  done  with," 
and  stepped  back  as  he  had  done  at  the  first. 

But  before  Guy  de  Lhoeac  could  open  his  mouth 
the  priest  broke  in,  hot  and  furious — 

"  By  Saint  Agnes  !  did  I  not  say  so?  How  much 
hath  this  Rovere  paid  thee,  fellow,  to  villify  Holy 
Church?  What  a  cur  the  man  must  be  to  bid  thee 
foul  and  snap  at  that  whereby  he  lives,  since  but  for 
Sixtus  where  would  be  Rovere?  Ha !  I  smell  the 
trick.  These  Roveres  are  of  the  Italian  faction,  and 
would  discredit  us  common  scum  of  France  lest  we 
climb  into  their  place !  By  Holy  Paul !  he  and 
thou  shalt  pay  for  it.  What,  Guy,  what  ?  Art  thou 
dumb  under  such  vile  slanders  of  thy  brother?" 

But  the  Seigneur  never  budged  from  where  he 
stood  leaning  against  the  table,  his  arms  crossed, 
and  his  beard  sunk  upon  his  breast. 

"  The  child  hath  other  kin  besides  thee — kin  on 
the  mother's  side,"  he  answered  coldly,  "  and  it  is 
to  Messire  Ravelli's  credit  that  he  has  told  his  mes- 
sage without  fear  or  favour.  Why  art  thou  so  hot 
to  take  it  to  thyself  ?  But  this  thing  is  new  to  me, 
and  my  wit  is  slower  than  it  was.  Signor,  let  me 
understand.  You  say  there  are  twelve  houses?" 

"  That  is  the  modern  method,  Seigneur,  the  fangle 
of  these  few  hundred  years,"  replied  the  Italian, 
"  and  so  I  gave  it  to  you.  But  it  was  not  thus  we 
learned  astrology  on  the  ancient  watch-towers  of 
Nineveh  and  Babylon.  No,  Chaldea  knew  the  truth 
more  simply  and  yet  more  perfectly,  and  yet  in  their 
essence  the  systems  are  at  one.  It  is  the  accursed 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  29 

hunger  after  novelty  and  elaboration.  What  need 
of  twelve  houses  when  there  are  but  seven  dwellers 
therein  ?  Since  what  are  they,  these  houses,  but  the 
changing  abodes  where  the  Eternal  forces  move  and 
rule?  And  which  is  greater,  the  body  of  a  man 
or  the  eternal  spirit  that  illumines  it  ?  the  house  or 
that  which  dignifies  the  house  ?  Truly,  the  latter. 
Thence  come  the  pulsations  of  the  heart  of  the 
universe,  the  flooding  currents  of  life  in  which  are 
borne  the  powers  and  destinies  of  men.  Reckon 
them,  then,  Seigneur,  as  seven  houses.  Thus  :  the 
House  of  Life  and  Fortune,  the  things  which  a  man 
possesses;  the  House  of  Kindred,  that  environment 
into  which  a  man  is  born  ;  the  House  of  Marriage, 
which  is  the  house  of  the  being  and  the  blessing  of 
life  ;  the  House  of  Death  ;  the  House  of  Religion  ; 
the  House  of  Dignity  and  Honour;  the  House  of 
Friends  and  Enemies.  You  are  warned  ;  you  are 
taught,  Seigneur.  May  the  Power  that  through 
the  creeping  centuries  has  shed  this  broadening 
light  upon  the  world  keep  and  guard  the  child." 

Turning  on  his  heel,  Jacopo  Ravelli  lifted  the 
curtain  behind  him  and  was  gone  with  no  more  than 
the  faintest  gesture  of  farewell.  Henri  de  Lhoeac 
he  heeded  not  at  all. 

So  sudden  was  the  movement  that  the  curtain 
had  fallen  back  into  its  place  before  the  Seigneur 
recovered  from  his  surprise,  and  as  he  sprang  for- 
ward to  recall  the  Italian  he  found  his  purpose 
checked.  Face  to  face  with  him  in  the  hollow  of 
the  wall  was  dame  Therese,  panting  and  breathless. 


30  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  For  the  love  of  the  Lord,  Seigneurs  both,  come 
to  young  Madame  and  at  once.  The  night  is  'most 
gone,  and  it's  on  my  mind  that  when  it  goes  she'll 
go  with  it." 

"  Chut,  chut,  dame,"  answered  de  Lhoeac  as  he 
followed  herjnto  the  passage.  "White  was  ever 
black  with  you  if  it  had  even  so  much  as  a  vein  of 
grey  in  it.  Give  her  the  child  to  pet,  and  I'll  war- 
rant the  babe  will  cuddle  her  back  to  strength." 

"  The  babe,  Seigneur  ?  Ah,  but  it's  woeful  to  see 
her  with  it  asleep  on  her  arm.  Tis  life  and  death 
they  are,  these  two ;  and  not  a  handsbreadth  be- 
tween. A  dozen  times  have  I  tried  to  take  it  from 
her,  that  she  might  rest,  but  she  will  not,  she  will 
not.  '  Let  it  bide,'  says  she,  mumbling  it  with  her 
mouth,  '  let  it  bide.  I  shall  have  her  but  five  hours, 
the  world  ten  times  as  many  years.  Nay,  it  may 
be  longer  than  that  ere  I  kiss  her  again ;  let  it  bide, 
dame  dear.'  And  what  can  a  body  do  but  give  her 
her  way  and  strive  hard  not  to  weep  ?  " 

"  Thou  art  a  fool,  woman,  a  fool,"  said  the  Seig- 
neur angrily.  "  What  ?  Give  the  girl  her  way  for 
no  reason  but  that  she  whines  for  it  ?  I  thought 
thou  hadst  more  sense,  and  thou  past  middle  age ; 
but  some  would  live  to  a  hundred  and  never  learn. 
Plague  take  these  stairs !  they  grow  steeper  every 
day  ;  and  yet  there  was  a  time  when  I  could  do  four 
in  a  stride.  Would  to  God  I  could  see  young  feet 
clamber  up  them.  Stay  a  moment,  dame,  while  I 
breathe ;  nay,  rather  go  on  and  bid  young  Madame 
put  some  colour  in  her  cheeks  if  only  for  shame 
that  she  has  brought  no  son  to  Lhoeac." 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  31 

Dame  Therese  had  gone  on  her  way  as  de  Lhoeac 
bade  her,  but  at  his  last  words  she  turned  upon 
him,  her  smooth,  plump  face  wrinkled  with  anger 
and  her  eyes  ablaze. 

"  What  ?  "  she  cried  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  that 
hissed  along  the  passage  like  water  on  hot  iron  ; 
"  would  you  gall  her  with  that,  and  she  in  her  last 
hour?  To  your  face  I  tell  it  to  you,  Seigneur,  and 
come  what  may  of  the  telling :  you  were  ever  a 
hard  man,  and  you  grow  no  softer  with  age,  but  if 
you  fling  that  in  her  face,  and  she  with  the  shadow 
of  the  grave  upon  her,  it  will  be  an  ill  thing  to  an- 
swer for  and  you  so  old  as  to  be  no  more  than  an 
arms-length  from  your  own  end.  Nay,  more,"  and 
she  fronted  Guy  de  Lhoeac  as  no  man  had  ever 
fronted  him  save  with  a  naked  weapon  in  his  hand, 
and  few  even  then,  "  if  that  be  your  thought,  it 
were  better  you  bide  outside,  and  not  carry  your 
own  hot  curse  with  you  for  the  tags  of  your  days." 

Round  she  swung  on  her  heel  again,  and  with 
back  squared  and  chin  in  the  air  went  down  the 
corridor  muttering,  while  the  startled  Seigneur 
could  not  do  more  than  stand  leaning  upon  the 
stone  balustrade,  staring. 

"  Plague  take  the  beldame  !  "  he  said  between  his 
teeth.  "  Didst  thou  hear  her,  Henri  ?  For  half  a 
word  she  would  have  had  her  nails  in  my  cheeks." 
But  to  his  credit  be  it  said  that  neither  then  nor 
later  did  dame  Therese  suffer  so  much  as  a  rebuke 
for  her  honest  speech.  Whether  in  man  or  in  wo- 
man Guy  dc  Lhoeac  respected  honesty  and  courage. 


32  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

When  they  entered  the  room  Therese  was  already 
bending  above  the  bed,  and  as  the  Seigneur  leaned 
across  her  shoulder  his  greeting  of  a  rough  jest  died 
unspoken.  Too  familiar  with  death  in  its  many 
forms  to  have  any  illusions,  his  first  words  gave  the 
key  to  his  thoughts. 

41  Where  is  Fra  Hugo?  "  he  asked  bluntly. 

"  My  peace  is  made,  Seigneur.  Fra  Hugo  has 
come  and  gone." 

"Thy  peace,  poor  lamb,"  said  the  nurse,  sobbing 
and  pushing  back  the  hair  from  the  girl's  forehead 
with  a  hand  that  shook  for  all  its  sinewy  strength  ; 
"when  was  there  aught  but  peace  between  God 
and  thee  ?  I'll  warrant  'twas  such  a  white  con- 
fession as  Fra  Hugo  never  before  hearkened  to." 

"  Henceforth  that  place  is  mine,  dame ;  "  and 
with  gentle  strength  the  Seigneur  moved  the  weep- 
ing woman  aside,  setting  himself  in  her  stead  by 
the  bed-head. 

With  a  quick  flash  of  life  the  girl  looked  up, 
and  the  fingers  that  caught  his  sleeve  had  a  strange 
strength  for  one  so  near  the  edge  of  the  world. 

"  Shall  it  be  so,  my  lord,  shall  it  indeed  be  so  ? 
Henceforth  ;  and  for  the  child  too  ?  See !  "  and 
she  drew  down  the  coverings,  showing  the  infant 
asleep  upon  her  arm.  "  Is  that  yours  henceforth, 
Seigneur?  " 

"  While  God  gives  me  life  she  shall  be  the  trea- 
sure of  Lhoeac  !  "  he  replied  solemnly,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  babe's  head  as  he  spoke.  "  Nay, 
more  ;  by  His  grace  I  shall  find  away  to  stretch  an 
arm  from  the  grave  itself  to  hold  her  safe.  God  in 


THE  HOROSCOPE.  33 

His   mercy  deal  so  with  me   as   I   deal  with  the 
child." 

"  And  at  the  last  may  He  be  gracious  to  you,  my 
lord,  as  you  have  now  had  pity  upon  me.  My  fear 
was  for  the  child.  The  rest  is  nothing — nothing 
but  a  sleeping  and  awakening." 

"  What,  ma  petite?  These  seventy-five  years  it 
has  seemed  to  me  hard  to  die ;  is  it  not  so  at  the 
last?" 

"  This,"  and  a  smile  flickered  upon  her  lips  as  she 
lay  back  with  closed  eyes,  "  this  is  easy,  so  very 
easy." 

Then  she  wrapped  her  arms  closer  about  the 
child  and  a  silence  fell  upon  the  room,  broken  only 
by  the  drumming  of  Henri  de  Lhoeac's  fingers  on 
the  bed-foot.  But  not  for  long.  With  a  start  she 
looked  up. 

"  Take  her,  my  father,  take  her,"  she  whispered 
hoarsely,  lifting  the  child  with  her  last  strength  as 
she  spoke.  "  My  babe,  my  babe,  my  babe !  " 

Very  tenderly  de  Lhoeac  took  the  infant  Into  his 
unaccustomed  arms. 

"  She  is  mine,  daughter,  mine  to  hold  and  guard." 

"And  to  love?" 

"  And  to  love,"  he  repeated,  drawing  the  child 
closer. 

"  Into  Thy  hands,  oh  Lord — Thy  hands,  I " 

Then,  from  whence  none  noted,  Fra  Hugo  stole 
into  the  room  and  knelt  by  the  bed-head.  The 
shadow  of  the  House  of  Death  had  fallen  across  the 
House  of  Life  even  as  Jacopo  Ravelli  had  foretold. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 
I. 

FOR  eight  years  of  life  Guy  de  Lhoeac  kept  his 
word,  as  was  the  custom  of  his  race,  and  then,  dying 
in  the  fulness  and  feebleness  of  years,  kept  it  in 
death.  For  these  eight  years  the  child  Denise — 
called  after  her  grandmother,  the  Seigneur's  long- 
dead  wife — was  the  plaything  and  the  idol  of  the 
Suzerainty.  No  Anne  of  Brittany,  whether  as 
Duchess  in  her  own  right  or  as  twice  Queen  of 
France — and  Anne,  astute,  clear-brained  and  am- 
bitious, was  no  puppet  Queen — ruled  her  millions 
with  a  more  grave  assumption  of  right  divine  than 
that  with  which  Denise  the  child  ruled  her  hundreds, 
and  the  humblest  of  her  subjects  was  stern  old  Guy 
de  Lhoeac. 

It  was  nature's  revenge,  and  when  nature  hits 
back  she  hits  hard.  For  close  upon  threescore  years 
he  had  been  a  law  unto  himself,  going  his  own  way 
in  ruthless  disregard  of  aught  but  his  own  will,  yet 
always  within  such  bounds  as  every  man  sets  up 
who  reverences  his  own  conscience.  Now,  in  his 
old  age  he  was  taken  captive,  and,  saving  for  these 
same  restraints  of  conscience  which  bound  him  in 
his  love  even  as  they  had  in  his  ambition  and  his 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  35 

hate  as  they  bind  all  loyal  gentlemen,  he  had  no 
will  but  that  of  the  child.  His  very  pride  of  lineage 
had  taken  a  fresh  form,  and  Lhoeac,  the  race  of 
many  generations,  was  lost  in  Lhoeac  the  darling 
of  his  prayer  and  thought. 

But  it  was  not  for  nought  that  Lhoeac  submitted 
itself  to  the  will  of  its  child  tyrant.  Never,  for  two 
generations,  had  the  Suzerainty  known  such  years 
of  fat  and  plenty,  growth  and  peace.  Hitherto  its 
resources  of  both  men  and  goods  had  been  steadily, 
ruthlessly  drained  that  its  Seigneur  or  its  Sieur,  the 
old  lord  or  the  young,  might  hold  his  own  in  camp 
and  court  as  became  a  Lhoeac  of  Lhoeac.  With 
the  death  of  the  young  heir  in  a  private  quarrel  all 
that  had  ceased,  and  now  old  Guy  de  Lhoeac's  one 
thought  was  the  adding  of  strength  to  strength 
against  the  day  of  trial ;  so  that  to  Beam  in  the 
south  and  the  furthest  verge  of  Guienne  in  the 
north  Lhoeac  became  known  as  a  place  where  a 
man  might  till  his  fields  and  plant  his  vineyards 
with  the  assurance  of  eating  the  fruit  of  his  labour. 

But  Guy  de  Lhoeac  in  his  hard-wrought  life  had 
learned  this  truth  amongst  others :  that  strength 
begets  strength,  and  that  preparedness  for  war  is 
the  surest  pledge  of  peace.  Therefore,  making  no 
haste,  but  rather  biding  his  time  that  he  might 
pick  and  choose,  he  gathered  together  out  of  every 
nation  such  a  garrison  as  held  Lhoeac  as  safe  as 
Louis  the  King  held  Plessis  Les  Tours,  but  with  a 
difference.  The  Seigneur  ruled  through  love  and 
faith,  the  King  through  fear  and  hatred;  and  of 


36  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

the  two  the  Seigneur  was  the  better  served.  What 
man  wept  when  the  eleventh  Louis,  that  "  walking 
skeleton,"  laid  himself  down  to  die  ?  Not  one  in 
all  France. 

After  the  death  of  the  young  mother  there  had 
been  high  words  between  the  brothers,  and  once 
only  through  these  eight  years  did  the  Canon  of 
Mont-de-Mersan  visit  the  Chateau,  and  then  it  was 
again  under  the  shadow  of  loss.  Fra  Hugo  passed 
away  as  tranquilly  as  he  had  lived,  and  needs  must 
that  a  chaplain  be  found  to  fill  his  place. 

In  this  emergency  the  Seigneur — who  was  no 
man  to  bear  malice  from  one  year  to  another — be- 
thought himself  of  his  brother.  What  more  natural 
than  that  the  priest  of  the  family  should  provide 
the  family  priest?  Therefore  he  wrote  to  Henri 
de  Lhoeac  in  his  canonry  of  Mont-de-Mersan  order- 
ing a  chaplain  to  suit  the  needs  of  his  household  as 
a  man  might  a  horse  or  a  cow,  and  provided  he 
was,  in  the  person  of  Brother  Martin,  but  not  direct 
from  Mont-de-Mersan. 

In  his  fastidious  zeal  for  Lhoeac,  Henri  could 
find  no  man  within  arms-length  to  fill  the  place. 
What  more  natural,  then,  but  that  in  his  perplexity 
he  should  apply  to  Torriano,  General  of  the  gentle 
Order  of  Saint  Dominic,  a  man  already  famous  for 
that  earnest  spirit  which  afterwards  found  its 
highest  expression  of  devotion  in  the  purging  of 
the  church  from  the  malignant  heresies  of  Fra 
Girolamo,  commonly  known  as  Savonarola.  A  fiery 
and  a  terrible  purging  truly,  but  congenial  withal, 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  37 

and  Torriano's  enthusiasm  was  not  to  be  limited  by 
weak  considerations  of  justice  or  mercy. 

In  the  hands  of  such  a  man  Henri  de  Lhoeac 
might  leave  with  safety  the  needs  of  his  brother's 
household,  and  his  own  interests,  and  doubtless  the 
six  weeks  or  more  during  which  the  Chateau  was 
without  ghostly  comfort  were  not  wasted.  Brother 
Martin  was  worthy  waiting  for.  Naturally,  too,  the 
young  Dominican  would  require  for  private  teach- 
ing these  five  days  he  rested  at  Mont-de-Mersan. 
To  be  rightly  used  spiritual  influence  must  be  joined 
to  worldly  knowledge,  and  the  Canon  was  an  effi- 
cient, if  not  a  deeply  learned  instructor. 

Nor,  impelled  by  his  Christian  charity,  could 
Henri  de  Lhoeac  neglect  this  opportunity  of  recon- 
ciliation. He  therefore  accompanied  his  protege^ 
and  their  discourse  by  the  way  was  impressive  and 
to  the  point,  being  the  summing  up  of  a  week's 
teaching.  "  The  church,  my  brother,  the  church 
first  and  always;  then  the  order;  then  Lhoeac. 
Therefore  it  follows  that  the  good  of  the  church  is 
the  advancement  of  the  order  and  the  blessing  of 
Lhoeac.  Even  to  a  man  who  has  not  learned  logic 
that  much  must  be  clear.  It  is  clear,  also,  that  the 
blessing  of  the  one  and  the  advancement  of  the 
other  must  be  by  the  road  of  the  first.  Now  Lhoeac, 
with  its  revenues  of  ten  thousand  crowns  a  year,  is 
in  danger  of  lapsing  to  the  world  by  the  sinful 
folly  of  a  dotard,  when  by  lawful  right  and  justice 
it  is  the  heritage  of  a  son  of  the  church  and  through 
him  of  our  common  mother." 


38  THE   SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  Between  this  justice  and  this  wickedness  stands 
a  child  of  five  years  ;  a  sinless  age,  my  brother,  as 
the  church  rightly  teaches.  Mark  that,  and  keep 
it  in  thy  memory ;  a  sinless  age.  If  there  were 
guilt  upon  the  soul  it  would  be  another  matter,  but 
the  guilt  is  yet  to  come.  Truly  it  is  to  the  glory 
of  God  that  sin  should  not  befoul  a  soul ;  and  when 
the  glory  of  God  and  the  good  of  the  church  are 
one  the  duty  of  an  earnest  servant  of  both  is  plain. 
What  saith  the  prophet  ? — there  is  no  need  to  give 
it  in  the  Latin — '  Whoso  coverteth  a  sinner  from 
the  error  of  his  ways  shall  save  a  soul  from  death.' ' 

"  It  was  the  Holy  Apostle  James,  was  it  not, 
Father  ?  And  is  it  not  rather  Greek  ?  " 

"  Aye,  aye,  Latin  or  Greek,  'tis  all  one  ;  and  mark 
you  the  'shall.'  'Tis  a  thing  yet  to  come  to  pass, 
a  thing  that,  so  to  speak,  lies  in  the  womb  of  time  ; 
therefore  he  wrote  as  a  prophet  and  not  as  an 
apostle.  In  future,  brother,  I  would  have  you  to  be 
more  careful  of  these  subtleties,  lest  the  ribald  in 
the  world  scoff  at  us.  But  the  point  is  4  whoso  con- 
verteth.'  Now,  to  convert  is  to  transform — to  turn  ; 
therefore  the  prevention,  or  turning  of  this  child 
from  sin — you  see  the  point,  and  how  it  is  a  thing 
commanded  ?  Good,  aptness  in  conception  is  much, 
but  swiftness  in  action  is  more." 

"  Only,"  and  Henri  de  Lhoeac  held  up  a  warning 
hand  as  he  rode,  "  there  must  be  no  scandal ;  no 
cause  for  the  enemy  to  blaspheme.  Think,  my 
brother,  ten  thousand  crowns  a  year  rioted  away  in 
Satan  only  knows  what  evil  indulgences  when  they 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  39 

might  be  devoted  to  the  suppression  of  heresy,  or 
the  bringing  into  the  fold  of  the  church  the  heathen 
who  walk  in  darkness." 

"  I  understand,  Father,"  and  Brother  Martin's 
sombre  eyes  lit  up  in  their  hollows.  "  This  Lhoeac 
is  no  better  than  anathema,  having  rejected  the 
counsels  of  truth  and  justice.  That  much  his 
Greatness  the  General  has  told  me.  As  to  the  child, 
the  world  must  move  on,  and  it  were  better  that 
one  die  rather  than  a  whole  people  perish." 

"  You  understand,  also,"  and  Henry  de  Lhoeac's 
face  clouded,  and  his  words  came  less  trippingly  to 
his  tongue,  "that  I  cannot  appear  in  this  matter? 
Already  the  world  is  over-fond  of  ascribing  evil 
motives  to  us  churchmen.  Now,  our  motives  are 
pure,  but  whatsoever  happens  must  happen  of  the 
providence  of  God,  or  in  the  course  of  nature, 
which  is  the  same  thing.  Eh,  brother;  you  under- 
stand? " 

"  Torriano  was  clear,"  answered  Brother  Martin 
gravely.  "  He  is  the  brain  and  heart ;  I  am  no 
more  than  a  finger  and  thumb.  It  is  honour  enough 
to  me  if  I  lift  out  of  the  church's  way  that  which 
hinders  its  progress." 

Both  were  received  by  the  Seigneur  in  character- 
istic fashion. 

"  You  are  welcome  to  Lhoeac,  Sir  Priest ;  aye, 
and  you,  too,  brother,  in  spite  of  all  that  has  come 
and  gone  between  us.  But  I  would  have  you  both 
bear  this  in  mind.  Your  business  is  with  the  world 
to  come  and  with  nought  else ;  leave  my  affairs 


40  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

alone,  and  we  shall  be  the  better  friends.  It  will 
rejoice  your  heart,  Henri,  to  learn  that  the  child  is 
as  sturdy  as  her  mother  was  frail.  God  be  thanked, 
she  is  Lhoeac  through  and  through,  spirit  and 
temper,  bone  and  flesh." 

"  And  does  her  mind  keep  pace  with  her  strength, 
my  lord  ?  "  said  Brother  Martin,  striking  in  quickly 
before  his  superior  could  reply  to  the  blunt  greet- 
ing. "  All  my  poor  store  of  knowledge  is  at 
her- 

"  What  the  body  is  to-day  the  mind  will  be  to- 
morrow," interrupted  the  Seigneur  sharply.  "  I'll 
warrant  the  wit  when  the  time  comes  to  use  it. 
What,  man  ?  Wouldst  have  the  babe — and  what  is 
five  years  but  a  babe? — robbed  of  her  freshness? 
By  Saint  Agnes,  Master  Monk,  thou  wilt  not  be 
long  at  Lhoeac  if  thou  plaguest  the  little  maid  with 
thy  books.  Teach  her  to  love  truth,  to  fear  nought, 
and  to  hate  the  devil ;  and  ten  years  hence  will  be 
soon  enough  for  the  rest.  What  the  pest  has  a  girl 
to  do  with  books?  Aye,  or  a  boy  either,  if  he  have 
not  a  mitre  in  his  eye  !  As  thou  hast,  Henri,  and 
with  little  learning  to  aid  thee  !  " 

Which  was  true  enough.  The  Canon  of  Mont- 
de-Mersan  had  his  own  methods  of  climbing,  but 
his  ladder  was  not  propped  against  the  tree  of 
knowledge. 

That  Brother  Martin  took  the  Seigneur's  blunt 
hint  to  heart  was  presently  seen  in  the  close  friend- 
ship which  sprang  up  between  the  monk  and  the 
child  Denise.  Within  a  week  he  held  the  third 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  41 

place  in  her  love,  coming  next  to  the  Seigneur  and 
dame  Therese.  With  Henri  de  Lhoeac  she  was  at 
frank  enmity,  and  made  no  scruple  of  openly  ex- 
pressing her  wish  that  the  Castle  was  quit  of  him  ; 
a  wish  which  externally  ruffled  the  Canon  not  at 
all. 

"  She  has  been  well  taught,"  said  he,  with  a  hard 
smile  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  But  I  am  a 
bird  of  passage,  and  count  for  nought.  That  she 
should  open  her  heart  to  Martin  is  much  more  to 
the  point,  and  he  is  winning  her  fast  ;  fast ;  both 
love  and  confidence,  therefore  all  is  well." 

They  were  on  the  terrace  which  fronted  the 
great  entrance  to  the  Castle  as  he  spoke  ;  and  indeed 
the  monk  and  the  child  made  a  strange  couple. 
The  man,  tall  and  ascetic,  thin  to  meagreness,  in 
spite  of  the  swathing  folds  of  his  grey  frock,  was 
braced  against  the  weight  of  the  sturdy,  fresh-faced 
child,  who,  grasping  his  loosened  waistcords  with 
both  hands,  swung,  swaying  back,  her  long  quaint 
robe  brushing  the  grass  and  her  head  tilted  to  laugh 
up  into  the  lined  and  earnest  face  turned  down  to 
greet  her. 

"  Aye,"  answered  the  Seigneur,  his  dull  eyes 
lighting  up  as  they  always  did  at  the  sight  of 
Denise  ;  "  I  am  in  your  debt  there,  Henri.  Some 
day  you  must  show  me  how  to  repay  you.  That 
Martin  of  yours  is  a  rare  fellow  and  a  treasure  worth 
the  keeping." 

This  was  a  mood  long  watched  for,  and  Henri  de 
Lhoeac  was  no  man  to  let  it  slip. 


42  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  Between  brother  and  brother  there  is  no  room 
for  talk  of  repayment,"  said  he,  laying  his  hand  on 
the  other's  arm  and  pressing  it  lightly.  "  You  are 
Seigneur,  Guy,  and  I — well,  it  is  written  the  younger 
shall  serve  the  elder.  Yet,  if  I  but  dared  say  it, 
there  is  a  thing  at  the  moment  that  you — but  no, 
it  is  too  much,  beyond  all  reason  too  much  ;  let 
there  be  no  talk  of  repayment,  my  dear  lord  and 
brother,  I  beg  of  you." 

"  Too  much  ?  "  repeated  the  Seigneur,  still  watch- 
ing the  play  of  the  child  with  smiling  eyes.  *'  You 
have  grown  modest,  Henri,  a  new  thing  with  you. 

If  it  touch  not  Lhoeac Well  tugged,  Denise, 

thou  hast  a  boy's  strength  in  those  arms  of  thine ! 
Harder,  harder !  See  how  he  staggers,  Henri,  for 
all  that  he  is  a  man  and  she  no  more  than  a  babe. 
By  Saint  Agnes,  it  is  a  brave  wench  !  Ah,  your 
pardon.  We  spoke  of  something  you  had  in  your 
mind,  did  we  not?  " 

With  a  strong  effort  the  Canon  of  Mont-de-Mersan 
curbed  his  wrath  ;  yet,  in  spite  of  his  control,  his 
voice  shook,  and  though  his  lips  smiled  there  was 
no  laughter  in  his  eyes  but  rather  much  bitterness 
as  he  answered — 

"  A  brave  wench,  truly  !  and  her  baby's  play  out- 
weighs the  dearest  hopes  of  a  man  of  fifty  years. 
Bid  her  make  Brother  Martin  stagger  a  second  time, 
that  I  may  forget  my  chagrin  in  my  admiration." 

"So,  so;  I  remember  now.  Does  it  lie  so  near 
your  heart  as  that?  Well,  if  it  touch  not  Lhoeac, 
as  I  said,  or  if  it  rob  not  Raoul's  child,  who  is  the 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  43 

heir  of  Lhoeac,  you  will  not  find  me  backward. 
But,  for  the  sake  of  the  peace  which  is  between  us, 
let  that  which  is  asleep  bide  asleep." 

For  a  brief  space  there  was  silence.  To  attack  on 
the  weakest  side  is  as  much  the  wit  of  the  beggar  as 
of  the  soldier,  and  Henri  de  Lhoeac  could  afford  to 
throw  away  no  point  in  his  strategy. 

"The  Bishop  of  Libourne  is  dead,"  he  said  at 
last,  speaking  slowly  and  with  bowed  head.  "  For 
eight  thousand  crowns  a  Lhoeac  could  be  Bishop 
of  Libourne.  Thence  to  Bordeaux  is  but  a  step, 
and — and  from  Bordeaux  to  Rome  has  been  but  a 
further  step  before  now.  Remember  Clement  the 
Fifth.  I  am  no  fool,  Guy,  and  for  eight  thousand 
crowns  a  Lhoeac  may  one  day  sit  on  Saint  Peter's 
chair." 

"  What,  Henri  ?     Simony?" 

"  No,  no,  no.  But  there  are  fees  to  be  paid. 
Does  Innocent  the  Eighth  hold  state  for  nothing  ? 
And  where  is  a  poor  Canon  of  Mont-de-Mersan  to 
find  eight  thousand  crowns?  Be  frank,  my  lord; 
is  it  one  year's  revenue  of  Lhoeac  ?  " 

44  To  be  frank,  it  is  not ;  but  it  is  eight  thousand 
crowns,  and 

From  behind  there  came  the  bubbling  laughter 
of  the  child,  and  the  Seigneur  stopped  abruptly,  his 
forehead  wrinkled  in  thought.  Then  as  suddenly 
as  his  face  had  clouded  it  cleared  ;  his  mind  was 
made  up,  and  once  his  face  was  set  forward  he  was 
no  man  to  look  back. 

44  After  all  it  is  not  overmuch  to  pay  for  peace 


44  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

once  and  for  all.  But — for  I  would  not  willingly  be 
taken  for  a  fool — to  be  frank  again,  this  wild  talk  of 
Saint  Peter's  chair,  and  the  greatness  of  Lhoeac 
moves  me  not  at  all.  On  such  a  greatness,  and  so 
won,  I  set  no  manner  of  store.  Thou,"  and  there 
was  a  sort  of  kindly  contempt  in  his  tone  as  he 
spoke,  "  thou,  Henri,  art  the  first  Lhoeac  of  us  all 
who  has  sought  to  climb  by  a  back  stair.  But  let 
that  pass ;  thou  hast  chosen,  and  that  thou  wilt 
climb,  and  climb  high,  I  doubt  not.  I  would  only 
have  thee  understand  that  these  things  in  no  wise 
touch  me.  But,"  and  his  voice  softened,  and  he  put 
his  hand  lightly  on  the  other's  shoulder,  "  thou  wert 
a  babe  when  I  was  a  grown  man,  and  for  all  thy  wit 
I  cannot  but  hold  thee  as  a  little  of  the  weakling 
still,  and  so  a  thing  to  be  helped.  That  counts  for 
something.  Then  thou  art  of  Lhoeac  and  I  love 
the  race,  root  and  branch  ;  that  also  counts  for 
something.  Lastly,  there  is  the  child  Denise,  and 
she  counts  for  much,  for  the  other  two  lumped 
together,  and  more.  It  is  Denise,  Henri,  who  gives 
thee  thy  eight  thousand  crowns.  Remember  it  to 
her  for  good  when  the  day  of  her  need  comes." 

With  a  quick  gesture  Henri  de  Lhoeac  grasped 
the  Seigneur's  hand  in  both  of  his. 

"  My  lord ;  my  brother ;  Guy !  "  he  cried,  with  a 
rising  inflection  in  his  earnest,  vibrating  voice. 
"  How  can  I  thank  thee?  How  can  I  repay  thee  ?  " 
But  the  Seigneur  shook  him  off  almost  impatiently. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  thee  that  it  was  Denise  and  not  I  ? 
Remember  it  to  Denise,  Henri." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  45 

"  Have  no  fear,  brother,"  answered  the  other 
softly,  "  have  no  fear  ;  I  shall  not  forget  Denise — 
no,  not  while  I  live." 

Four  days  later  he  returned  to  Mont-de-Mersan, 
and  ten  of  Lhoeac's  men  rode  with  him.  Eight 
thousand  crowns  were  not  to  be  lightly  risked,  and 
the  safety  of  the  highways  of  Gascony  and  Guienne 
was  little  better  than  a  byword. 

II. 

Between  Henri  de  Lhoeac  and  the  humble 
brother  of  the  Order  of  Saint  Dominic  there  had 
been  little  intercourse  during  the  stay  of  the  former 
at  the  Chateau.  He  is  a  wise  man  who  does  not 
say  too  much  even  when  mind  and  heart  are  alike 
full ;  and  the  future  Bishop  of  Libourne  was  right 
when  he  described  himself  as  no  fool.  One  parting 
injunction  he  gave,  and  one  only. 

"  There  is  no  virtue  in  overhaste,"  said  he  to  the 
young  friar  who  walked  by  his  stirrup-leather  as  he 
rode  slowly  down  the  grass  slope  fronting  the  ter- 
raced and  paved  causeway  which  surrounded  the 
Castle.  "  Speed  hath  its  merits,  but  to  do  a  thing 
well  counts  for  more  than  to  do  it  quickly.  See  to 
it  that  I  can  commend  thee  to  Torriano  ;  "  and  with 
a  curt  nod  he  shook  up  his  beast  and  rode  smartly 
after  his  bishopric. 

The  advice  was  sound,  and  Brother  Martin 
knew  it.  Yet,  with  his  zeal  ablaze  for  that  great 
work  for  the  church  which  Torriano  had  promised 
should  lie  behind  the  fulfilment  of  the  duty  laid 


46  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

upon  him  at  Lhoeac,  he  chafed  sorely  at  the 
caution.  The  dream  of  his  life  was  a  missionary 
martyrdom,  and  he  reckoned  no  price  too  high  to 
pay,  no  road  too  hard  or  too  foul  to  travel,  to  gain 
his  end.  Humble  Brother  Martin  had  it  in  him  to 
be  another  Peter  the  Hermit  preaching  a  fresh 
crusade,  and  in  his  pinched,  starved  face  and  fiery, 
sunken  eyes  he  bore  the  unmistakable  signs-royal 
of  the  enthusiast. 

To  such  a  man  a  child  was  no  more  than  a  butter- 
fly in  the  sunshine,  and  the  wise  Canon  of  Mont- 
de-Mersan  struck  the  true  note  when  he  harped 
upon  the  sinlessness  of  Denise.  Yet,  for  all  his 
strictness,  Brother  Martin  was  too  astute  to  play 
the  ascetic  in  such  a  community  as  that  of  Lhoeac. 
The  Seigneur  was  no  man  to  be  won  over  by  stern 
austerity.  Like  most  men  of  camps  he  was  suspi- 
cious of  extremes,  and  with  the  craft  of  his  training 
Brother  Martin  let  slip  into  life  that  true  nature  of 
kindly  and  gentle  frankness  which  for  seven  years 
he  had  held  hard  curbed.  Results  justified  his 
wisdom.  Not  only  did  he  win  the  child,  but 
within  a  month  all  Chateau  Lhoeac  had  forgotten 
Fra  Hugo  in  Brother  Martin.  The  new  order  of 
things  had  elbowed  out  of  memory  the  old. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  the  repose  from  which  the 
Suzerainty  sucked  strength,  the  days  were  not 
altogether  days  of  peace  to  the  garrison.  Since 
Talbot  had  fallen  at  Castillon  some  forty  years 
before  the  English  had  gradually  ceased  to  trouble 
in  the  land,  but  their  very  disappearance  and  the 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  47 

peace  which  followed  had  let  loose  another  form  of 
strife  and  fostered  an  internal  anarchy  by  setting 
free  a  horde  of  unscrupulous  mercenaries,  who, 
having  long  lived  by  robbery  in  the  name  of  war, 
now  turned  to  frank  brigandage.  Every  fastness, 
whether  of  hill  or  forest,  had  its  band  of  marauders, 
and  the  very  prosperity  of  Lhoeac  made  it  the 
richer  prey. 

It  therefore  followed  that  English  Roger  Patcham, 
who  served  as  captain  under  the  Seigneur,  had  his 
hands  full.  Not  a  week  passed  without  its  skirmish, 
and  swords  and  pikes  had  small  chance  to  grow 
dull  with  rust — a  thing  which  pleased  Guy  de 
Lhoeac  hugely.  He  had  no  mind  that  his  fighting 
tools,  whether  of  steel  or  flesh  and  blood,  should 
lose  their  keenness. 

But  all  these  comings  and  goings  were  so  much  a 
matter  of  course  that  they  in  no  wise  troubled  the 
daily  life  of  Lhoeac.  It  remained  for  the  child 
Denise  to  ruffle  the  calm. 

It  was  a  mid-July  day,  and  Guy  de  Lhoeac  was 
seated  on  a  bench  in  front  of  the  great  door  warm- 
ing his  cold  blood  in  the  sunshine.  Hard  upon  an 
hour  he  had  sat  there,  sunning  himself,  when  he 
was  roused  by  a  thin  cry  from  the  lower  pasture  to 
the  left,  where  the  angle  of  a  pine  wood  just  hid 
Les  Rochers-des-Ours  from  sight ;  a  rough  scar  of 
rocks  falling  rapidly  for  two  hundred  feet,  and 
where  tradition  said  the  bears  of  old  made  their  den. 
In  an  instant  he  was  alert,  and  shading  his  eyes 
with  his  hand  stared  hard  across  the  grass. 


48  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  'Tis  Pierre  le  Bossu,"  he  muttered  as  he  rose  to 
his  feet.  "  There  is  trouble  afoot.  A  man  of  sense 
is  Pierre,  and  knows  better  than  to  rouse  Lhoeac 
for  nought.  Hullo  !  who  serves  within  ?  Bring  me 
my  staff,  and  quickly."  With  the  stiffness  warmed 
out  of  his  limbs  he  had  thrown  off  ten  years  from 
his  age,  and  for  all  his  haste  when  the  two  met  Guy 
the  lord  panted  less  hard  than  Pierre  the  peasant. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  cried  sharply,  "  hath  Spain  broken 
loose  upon  us  that  thou  comest  howling  in  such  a 
fashion  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Seigneur,  the  maid,  the  little  maid  !  "  gasped 
the  hunchback.  "  I  saw  her  tumble  like  a  shot 
goat.  With  my  own  eyes  I  saw  it." 

"  What  maid,  fool  ?  " 

"  Mamzelle  Denise  ;  like  a  shot  goat,  Seigneur, 
like  a  shot  goat." 

Down  fell  the  staff  and  out  flew  Guy  de  Lhoeac's 
two  hands,  and  with  the  words  still  in  his  mouth 
Master  Pierre  was  being  shaken  as  never  his  great 
harridan  of  a  wife  had  shaken  him  in  all  their 
fourteen  years  of  troubled  matrimony. 

w  Mademoiselle  Denise  ?  What  tale  is  this  ? 
Talk,  fool,  talk." 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  Seigneur  !  Saints  !  My 
tongue  is  bitten  through,  Seigneur.  Seigneur,  how 
can  I  talk  and  all  my  breath  trounced  out  of  me  ?  " 

"There!"  and  still  unconscious  of  his  own 
violence,  Guy  de  Lhoeac  flung  the  hunchback  from 
him  so  that  he  spun  and  staggered  from  heel  to  heel 
on  the  dry  sod,  (l  Now  talk,  fool." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  49 

"  It  was  this  way,  Seigneur,"  and  with  an  effort 
Pierre  le  Bossu  pulled  himself  together  and  faced 
the  stern  old  lord.  "  I  was  setting  my  mole- 
traps " 

"  Plague  take  thy  mole-traps !  God  in  heaven, 
man,  give  me  a  plain  answer!  What  of  Made- 
moiselle ?  " 

"  She  was  on  the  brow  of  the  rocks  with  the 
grey  friar,  Seigneur.  There  she  was,  dancing  and 
capering  like  a  goat  kid,  as  a  child  should,  and 
when  I  saw  her  I  straightened  my  back " 

"  Thy  back,  man  !     Spur  thyself,  I  say." 

"  Yes,  Seigneur,  yes — and  waved — so  ;  but  she 
never  saw  me,  though  the  monk  did,  for  he  an- 
swered  me  like  this.  Then  I  stooped,  and  when  I 
looked  again  there  was  a  wisp  of  blue  and  white 
rolling  down  the  rocks,  just  like  a  shot  goat.  So  I 
ran,  and " 

But  Guy  de  Lhoeac,  with  one  hand  pressed  hard 
upon  his  heart,  was  running  through  the  fringe  of 
pines  which  there  broke  into  the  grass-lands  as  he 
had  not  run  in  twenty  years.  On  and  on,  with  his 
teeth  hard  set  and  his  eyes  seeing  little  else  through 
the  suffused  mist  that  was  before  them  but  a  blue 
and  white  bundle  tumbling  down  a  bottomless 
cascade  of  rocks,  and  a  sweet,  fresh  face  staring 
him  back  from  the  twinkling  mass  of  colour.  A 
bitter  hard  race  it  was,  and  not  far  from  a  race  of 
death  to  the  old  Seigneur,  yet  he  won  through,  and, 
breathing  fast  between  his  clenched  teeth,  broke 
from  the  shadow  to  the  sunshine  to  see  Brother 


50  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

Martin  coming  to  meet   him  with  the  wisped  bun- 
dle of  his  agonised  terror  held  tenderly  in  his  arms. 

"  Dead  ?  "  he  cried  shrilly,  his  voice  catching  and 
cracking  in  his  dry  throat.  "  My  Denise,  my  Den- 
ise  !  Oh,  God,  have  mercy  upon  me  !  " 

Then  above  the  monk's  grey  sleeve  he  saw  a 
vision  of  a  scared  white  face  struggle  into  sight, 
and  a  still  sturdy  voice  cried  back — 

"  That's  my  Granddad,  that's  my  own  Granddad. 
Be  good  to  Denise,  Granddad,  for  she's  frighted 
herself." 

Slipping  from  the  priest's  hold,  she  ran  to  the 
Seigneur,  who,  raising  her,  held  her  to  his  breast 
with  almost  fierce  passion  ;  nor  could  Brother  Mar- 
tin, as  he  stood  silently  by  with  moist  eyes,  have 
told  which  of  the  twain  comforted  the  other  the 
more. 

Presently,  laying  one  arm  round  de  Lhoeac's 
neck,  she  settled  herself  in  his  clasp,  and  said — 

"  Carry  Denise  home,  Granddad  ;  Denise  is  tired." 

But  reaction  had  set  in,  and  it  was  with  a  pathetic 
bitterness  that  de  Lhoeac,  recognising  his  own 
feebleness,  replied — 

"  Granddad  is  tired,  too,  Denise.  Brother  Martin 
will  take  thee." 

Promptly  the  child  turned  to  the  friar.  "  Martin 
is  good,"  she  said — then  she  held  up  her  face  that 
the  white-haired  mouth  might  kiss  her — "  but  you 
are  better,  Granddad.  Martin  will  carry  Denise." 

As  they  went  forward,  the  child  having  settled 
herself  in  his  arms  with  a  sigh  of  comfort,  the 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  51 

friar  began  his  story  of  what  had  befallen  her,  but 
de  Lhoeac  stopped  him  at  the  very  outset. 

"  Take  her  to  dame  Therese,  and  let  there  be  no 
time  lost,"  he  said  curtly.  "  I  will  follow  at  my 
own  pace.  Later  Denise  herself  shall  tell  me  what 
has  happened." 

But  as  he  saw  the  child's  hand  go  up  and  pat  the 
monk's  cheek  and  heard  her  crooning  to  herself  in 
his  arms,  a  foreboding  that  had  been  half-stirred 
within  him  was  laid  to  rest.  Her  faith  and  love 
were  unchanged,  therefore  Brother  Martin  could 
have  had  no  hand  in  the  accident. 

As  it  chanced,  he  had  the  end  of  the  story  told 
first,  for  as  he  went  slowly  through  the  wood  he 
met  one  of  the  hunchback's  fellow-peasants,  and 
from  him  learned  how  the  Dominican  had  risked 
his  own  life  for  that  of  young  Mamzelle. 

"  Down  he  clambered,  Seigneur,  more  like  a  cat 
than  a  man.  My  faith !  how  he  swung  himself 
from  rock  to  rock  when  a  slip  was  death,  and  that 
grey  skirt  of  his  flapping  his  legs  like  petticoats  on 
a  windy  day !  Doubtless  the  blessed  saint  upheld 
him,  but  it  is  none  the  less  a  fearsome  thing  for  a 
man  to  have  nought  but  his  faith  betwixt  him  and 
a  hundred  feet  of  nothing  and  the  next  world.  Yet 
he  did  it,  Seigneur,  he  did  it ;  and  with  not  so  much 
of  a  pause  as  would  serve  for  an  Ave.  Even  when 
he  reached  Mamzelle  Denise  he  held  his  life  at  stake, 
for  she  hung  out,  poor  lamb,  on  a  ragged  stump, 
and  had  he  slipped  an  inch  as  he  reached  after  her 
they  were  both  gone — pouf !  But  he  drew  her  in, 


52  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

as  one  might  draw  a  fish  on  a  hair-line,  inch  by 
inch.  Then  he  bound  her  in  the  skirt  of  his  robe 
with  those  swinging  cords  of  his,  and  climbed  back 
again,  liker  to  a  cat  than  ever.  As  for  me,  I  was 
on  my  knees  mumbling.  'Twas  all  a  man  could  do, 
Seigneur,  and  I  made  no  doubt  it  helped." 

Later,  as  Denise  with  difficulty  held  back  her 
tears  at  the  ignominy  of  bed,  she  was  cheered  by 
the  unaccustomed  sight  of  the  Seigneur.  For  all 
his  fondness  for  the  child  de  Lhoeac  held  that  even 
in  his  own  house  there  were  places  where  the  master 
had  scant  right  to  show  himself.  Denise's  night 
quarters  came  under  this  head,  and  as  she  saw  him 
the  child  reared  herself  bolt  upright,  and  cried — 

"  Indeed  and  indeed,  Granddad,  Denise  was  not 
bad." 

"Nay,  my  wench,  of  that  I  am  sure,"  and  the 
Seigneur,  drawing  a  stool  beside  her,  laid  his  arm 
round  her,  so  that  the  dark  curly  head  rested  upon 
his  shoulder.  "  Tell  Granddad  all  about  it." 

"  We  walked  and  we  walked,  and  the  sun  was  so 
hot  that  Martin  said,  '  Let  us  go  into  the  woods/ 
Then  it  was  cold  ;  at  least,  Martin  said  it  was  cold  ; 
so  we  went  out  again  where  the  nasty  rocks  are, 
and  Pierre  le  Bossu  was  working  in  the  field  below. 
And  he  waved — so — and  Martin  waved  back. 
Then  Martin  said,  '  Granddad  likes  flowers.'  And 
Denise  said,  '  Yes,  and  Denise  likes  flowers  too.' 
'There  is. such  a  pretty  one,'  Martin  said;  'look, 
there  in  the  rocks.  Is  Denise  afraid  to  get  it?' 
And  I  stamped  my  foot,  and  said,  '  Denise  is  Den- 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  53 

ise  de  Lhoeac,  and  not  afraid  of  anything,'  and 
went  to  get  it.  And  Martin  said,  'Come  back;' 
but  I  tumbled.  Was  Denise  bad  not  to  be  afraid, 
Granddad?  " 

"  No,  no,  my  wench ;  but  another  time  Denise 
must  leave  the  rocks  to  the  goats,  lest  she  play  ball 
with  herself  a  second  time." 

From  Denise  he  went  straight  to  Brother  Martin. 

"The  child  has  told  me  all,"  he  said  harshly. 
"  If  it  was  a  jest,  let  there  be  no  more  such  jests. 
If  it  was  a  trial,  her  courage  has  stood  the  test ; 
and  who  art  thou  to  jest  or  test  Mademoiselle  de 
Lhoeac?  Either  way  it  was  a  fool's  trick.  But 
let  that  pass.  If  I  speak  no  thanks,  monk,  for  what 
came  after,  it  is  because  such  folly  strangles  a  man's 
thanks  in  his  throat.  I  give  praise  to  no  man  who 
sets  another's  life  and  death  on  a  cast,  and  then 
snatches  life  by  no  more  than  a  cinq-quatre.  Let 
there  be  no  more  such  tricks,  I  say.  Do  you 
understand,  master  priest?"  And  Brother  Martin 
answered  never  a  word,  good  or  bad. 

Nor  was  the  old  lord's  wrath  unjustified,  for  though 
within  two  days  Denise  was  as  she  had  ever  been, 
the  Seigneur's  sands  were  shaken  a  month  for  an 
hour,  and  after  fourscore  a  month  counts  for  much. 

After  that  Lhoeac  again  had  peace,  and  the  July 
days  ebbed  out  in  tranquillity.  But  with  early 
August  the  quiet  was  again  stirred,  and  again  by 
Denise. 

On  the  crest  of  the  slope  upon  which  stood 
Chateau  Lhoeac  were  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  keep, 


54  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

the  victim  of  fire  and  sword  in  the  days  of  the 
English  occupation.  The  Lhoeac  of  his  days,  the 
Seigneur's  grand-uncle,  had  retired  within  it,  send- 
ing to  Sir  Thomas  Chisholme,  of  Starke  Hill,  the 
English  captain  who  threatened  Lhoeac,  a  courteous 
message  that  he  trusted  to  his  care  the  safety  and 
honour  of  the  defenceless  women  left  in  the  Chateau 
— a  bold  move,  and  yet  a  shrewdly  subtle  one;  for, 
full  of  the  chivalry  of  his  time,  Chisholme  held  the 
Castle  and  all  within  it  sacred,  ignoring,  indeed,  its 
very  existence  saving  that  he  hung  to  the  Lhoeac 
chestnuts  three  archers  who  had  dared  to  cross  its 
threshold. 

As  for  the  grey  keep  on  the  hill-top,  that  was 
another  matter,  as  the  Seigneur  found  to  his  cost. 
For  eight  days  he  held  out,  but  in  a  feint  assault 
undercover  of  night  Chisholme — with  the  barbarity 
so  closely  knit  with  the  chivalry  of  the  age — con- 
trived to  set  the  internal,  worm-dried  timbers  ablaze 
and  then  block  the  doorway,  penning  the  besieged 
like  rats  in  a  burning  trap. 

In  vain  Lhoeac  besought  that  they  might  have 
leave  to  come  out  and  to  fight,  even  though  it  were 
no  more  than  bare-handed  against  naked  steel,  and 
so  at  least  die  as  men. 

Chisholme  was  obdurate. 

"  What  ?  "  he  cried  back,  "  give  eight  good  days 
to  every  petty  lordling  who  shakes  his  fist  in  our 
faces  ?  No  !  by  Saint  George  !  Life  is  too  short  for 
such  foolishness,  and  so  thou  must  serve  as  a  lesson 
to  the  rest." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  55 

As  floor  after  floor  sunk  under  his  men's  feet 
Lhoeac  retreated  to  the  flat  roof,  but  it,  too, crumbled 
in  the  terrific  heat,  and  the  rising  sun  found  nothing 
of  the  ancient  keep  standing  but  a  cracked  and 
blackened  shell,  in  which,  piled  slantingly  almost  to 
the  machicolations,  was  the  still  smoking  funeral 
pyre  of  the  defenders. 

Since  that  dismal  night  the  English  tower,  as  it 
was  in  consequence  called,  had  been  left  to  the  owls 
and  bats,  untouched  save  that  the  doorway  was 
cleared  of  the  fire-gnawed  rubble  which  had  blocked 
it.  Whether  by  day  or  by  night  the  peasants 
shunned  it  as  the  haunt  of  devils  and  a  place  ac- 
cursed, pointing  out  as  proof  that,  in  spite  of  the 
years  which  had  passed,  the  terrible  slope  of  charred 
timbers  and  broken  stone  had  never  borne  as  much 
as  a  blade  of  grass,  nor  been  brightened  by  one  soli- 
tary weed.  There  it  mounted,  grim  and  threaten- 
ing, ghastly,  black,  and  naked,  as  on  the  night  when 
it  first  hid  its  charnal  secrets. 

But  with  Guy  de  Lhoeac  the  tower  was  a  favourite 
resting-place.  From  thence  the  Seigneurie  spread 
before  him  with  its  pastures,  its  vineyards,  its  woods, 
its  corn-lands,  its  villages,  and  near  at  hand  the  grey 
pile  of  Chateau  Lhoeac.  It  therefore  happened, 
that  few  days  passed  in  which,  at  one  time  or  an- 
other, the  English  tower  was  not  visited. 

On  one  of  these  pilgrimages,  as  he  neared  the 
tower,  he  heard  from  within  the  novel  sound  of 
life,  the  rattle  of  stones  crashing  down  the  crumbling 
face  of  the  slope,  and  their  ring  and  clatter  as  they 


56  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

jarred  against  the  wall  at  the  foot.  Thinking  that 
some  wild  beast  had  crept  there  for  shelter,  he 
paused,  and,  grasping  his  staff  as  a  weapon,  waited. 
Louder  grew  the  sound  as  the  movement  drew 
nearer  the  door,  and  with  all  his  hunter's  instincts 
keen  within  him  de  Lhoeac  stole  forward  to  gain  the 
advantage  of  surprise.  In  the  jaws  of  the  entrance 
was  Denise,  dishevelled,  tear-stained,  tattered,  and 
begrimed. 

"  Martin  is  bad  !  "  she  cried,  staying  her  whimpers 
as  she  saw  the  Seigneur.  "  Bad,  bad  !  To  tell  lies 
is  bad,  and  Martin  tells  lies." 

"  What  the  plague  art  thou  doing  here  ?  "  cried 
de  Lhoeac,  staring  down  at  her  too  astonished  to 
be  angry ;  "  and  how  earnest  thou  into  such  a 
plight?" 

"  Martin  said  Denise  would  find  her  Maman  at 
the  top,  so  Denise  went.  But,"  and  the  grimy  face 
puckered  into  the  fresh  beginning  of  tears,  "  there 
was  no  Hainan" 

"What?  Thou  didst  never  climb  there,  my 
babe?" 

"  Denise  is  not  a  babe ;  Denise  is  a  wench, 
Granddad,  and  does  not  tell  lies  like  Martin.  Denise 
did  climb.  Ouf  !  but  it  was  nasty  !  Look  what 
Denise  found,  Granddad ;  it  was  on  a  little  black 
stick." 

From  the  pocket  of  her  ragged  frock  she  drew  a 
dingy  circle  of  metal,  and  held  it  up  to  the  Seigneur. 
Laying  it  on  his  palm,  he  turned  it  over  curiously. 
It  was  a  ring,  tarnished  and  weather-stained,  but 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  57 

upon  the  collet,  under  the  corrodings  of  fire  and 
time,  there  could  still  be  traced  the  arms  of  his 
house. 

"  An  omen,  an  omen  !  "  he  cried,  his  eyes  light- 
ing up.  "  What  went  from  Lhoeac  has  come  back 
to  Lhoeac !  Granddad  will  keep  this  for  thee, 
Denise,  and  thou  shalt  have  it  back  when  thou  art 
a  grown  wench." 

This  time  the  Seigneur  said  no  word  of  reproach 
to  Brother  Martin,  but  thenceforth  the  friar  and 
Denise  were  never  left  to  themselves  whether 
within  the  Chateau  or  without.  Neither  to  Roger 
Patcham  nor  dame  Therese  was  any  reason  vouch- 
safed, but  both  knew  from  Guy  de  Lhoeac's  harsh 
insistence  that  the  order  was  no  mere  whim,  but 
had  some  secret  stern  necessity  behind  it.  So  for 
the  second  time  the  Dominican  was  baulked  of  his 
missionary  enterprise. 

It  was  in  September  that  the  crisis  broke — a  crisis 
that  robbed  Lhoeac  of  the  ministrations  of  its 
chaplain. 

For  all  his  suspicions  the  old  lord  had  never 
varied  in  his  courtesy  to  Brother  Martin,  and,  as 
from  the  beginning  of  the  Dominican's  stay  at 
Lhoeac,  it  was  the  custom  that  the  three,  Seigneur, 
Denise,  and  friar,  dined  daily  together  in  that  small 
room  in  which  Jacopo  Ravelli  had  explained  the 
horoscope.  Their  positions  at  table  never  altered. 
At  the  head  sat  Guy  de  Lhoeac,  to  his  left  the  child, 
and  opposite  her  was  Brother  Martin. 

It  was   Friday,  and  a  jour  Maigrc,   though  the 


58  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

Seigneur  and  Denise,  the  one  by  reason  of  age 
and  the  other  of  youth,  were  held  excused  from 
fasting.  On  such  days  the  monk,  always  frugal, 
lived  chiefly  on  bread  and  fruit,  and  as  the  meal 
came  to  a  close  he  drew  a  platter  of  apples  to 
him  and  selected  one  at  random. 

"  Now,"  and  he  nodded  smilingly  to  Denise,  "  let 
us  do  a  thing  which  is  a  custom  in  my  country.  To 
share  a  good  apple  is  to  share  a  pleasure,  we  say, 
and  he  who  shares  a  pleasure  doubles  it.  There 
is  room  for  a  trick  in  logic  there,  Seigneur,  is  there 
not  ?  "  and  he  turned  to  de  Lhoeac,  whose  dim  eyes 
were  watching  him  vigilantly.  "  If  the  apple  be 
a  pleasure — and  who  can  doubt  it,  smelling  its  smell 
and  seeing  its  colour ! — and  if  the  sharing  doubles 
pleasures,  why,"  and  he  drew  a  silver  knife  from 
his  inner  girdle,  and  beat  the  air  with  it  as  if  driving 
home  his  points,  then  divided  the  apple,  "  each 
must  needs  have  a  whole  fruit  ;  though,  alas ! 
you,  Denise,  will  find  it  no  more  than  half  for 
all  the  logic  !  There,  petite,  that  is  the  side  with 
rosy  cheeks  like  thine  own." 

But  the  Seigneur  stretched  out  a  long,  lean  hand 
between  the  two. 

"  Custom  for  custom,"  said  he,  his  eyes  never 
shifting  from  the  monk's  face.  "  In  such  cases  we 
change  halves." 

"With  all  respect,"  and  Brother  Martin  shook  his 
head  with  a  smile,  "  a  discourteous  custom ;  for 
see,  this  half  is  cankered." 

"  Then  you  have  the  less  cause  to  cavil,"  answered 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  59 

the  Seigneur  shortly.  "  I  hold  to  the  custom, 
master  priest." 

But  Brother  Martin  pushed  back  his  stool. 
"And  I  hold  to  mine,"  he  said.  "  Let  it  rest  there, 
my  lord ;  the  thing  is  not  worth  bickering  over ; " 
and  he  made  as  if  to  rise. 

With  a  half-leap  and  a  stride  de  Lhoeac  was  be- 
hind him  with  both  of  his  still  powerful  hands 
pressed  hard  upon  the  other's  shoulders. 

"  Run  thou  to  thy  dame,  Denise,"  he  said  sternly, 
"and  as  thou  runnest  bid  Michel  keep  the  door 
without  until  I  call ;  run,  child,  quickly." 

"  Now,  monk,"  and  though  his  hands  shook,  his 
finger-tips  bit  deeply  into  Brother  Martin's  shoul- 
ders, and  his  fierce  old  eyes  flamed  as  they  had  not 
flamed  in  years.  "  I  have  no  mind  to  shame  either 
thy  church  or  order,  but,  by  the  Lord  God  who 
made  me,  it  is  eat  or  hang,  for  all  thy  grey  frock." 

Backwards  leaned  Brother  Martin  and  stared  up 
into  the  set  face  bent  above  him. 

"  This  way  is  best,"  he  said  ;  and  lifting  the  apple, 
he  ate  it  tranquilly. 

"  So !  "  said  the  Seigneur.  "  That  was  bravely 
done,  and  like  a  man.  Now  may  God  forgive  you 
as  I  do."  Then  he  went  out  softly. 

III. 

That  night  Guy  de  Lhoeac  wrote,  by  the  unac- 
customed hand  of  Captain  Roger  Patcham,  a  letter 
to  the  newly-made  Lord  Bishop  of  Libourne.  An 
ill-writ,  ill-spelt  epistle  it  was,  for  honest  Roger  knew 


60  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

no  more  of  letters  than  would  suffice  twice  a  year 
to  let  his  old  and  widowed  mother  in  Rye-town 
know  that  he  lived  and  thrived,  and  had  sent  her 
half  his  pay  by  a  sure  hand.  A  rough  and  a  bluff 
soldier  was  Roger  Patcham,  but  he  had  this  saving 
salt  in  him,  that  he  feared  God  without  terror,  and 
reverenced  his  mother ;  and  it  was  chiefly  because 
of  these  two  things  that  the  Seigneur  came  to  trust 
him  as  he  did  later  on. 

But  for  all  its  blots,  and  however  much  clerkly 
schoolmen  would  have  gibed  at  the  fruits  of  Roger 
Patcham's  labours,  its  meaning  was  clear ;  and, 
after  all,  what  more  than  that  could  be  desired? 
Put  into  equivalent  English,  it  ran  something  in  this 
fashion  : — 

Mye  Lord  Bysshoppe  and  dere  Bruther, 

Thoue  wert  at  suche  paynes  tofynde  me  a  chyrch- 
mannefor  Lhoeac  thatte  it  wylle  greve  yr.  harte 

"  Plague  take  it,  Seigneur,  and  with  all  respect," 
said  Captain  Roger,  laying  down  his  goose-quill  at 
this  point ;  "  cannot  I  say  in  so  many  words  the 
man  is  dead,  and  God  be  thanked !  My  fingers  are 
crook'd  like  bird's  claws  with  the  cramp." 

"  Aye,  aye  ; "  and  old  Guy  nodded  sympatheti- 
cally ;  "  talk  comes  easy,  and  I  had  forgotten  that 
the  brunt  of  the  work  fell  upon  thee.  Neverthe- 
less, having  gone  thus  far,  we  must  go  on.  What 
was  the  last  word  ?  aye.  '  Grieve  your  heart.'  " 

— to  tern  thatte 

Bruther  Martyn  hath  dyde  of  eatynge  an  appel 
as  dy'd  al  menne.  Nexte  tyme  I  wylle  chuse  myne 
ownc  preste.  Ande  nowe  marke  thys  welle. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  61 

"  Aye,  I  know,  I  know,"  broke  off  de  Lhoeac  as 
his  secretary  groaned  and  stretched  the  knotted 
muscles  of  his  great  sinewy  fingers,  "  but  this  is  the 
pith  of  the  whole  thing,  without  which  all  the  rest 
goes  for  nought." 

If  the  chylde  Denyse 

dyethyunge  notte  one  deny  ear  of  al  Lhoeac  goeth 
to  thee.  Thatte  is  clear,  mye  Lord  Byshoppe,  soe 
marke  it  wel  I  saye  agayne,  for  it  is  God  hys 
trnvth.  Thou  wylt  knowe  why. 

"  Now  give  it  to  me.  Why,  man,  it  is  so  well 
and  clerky  writ  that  it  matters  nothing  whether  a 
man  doth  turn  it  upside  down  or  not." 

DE  LHOEAC. 

"  There !  let  him  swallow  that.  For  all  that  he 
is  my  brother  it  had  been  no  great  harm  to  the 
Seigneurie  if  he  had  shared  to-day's  after-feast  with 
that  poor  wretch  who,  to  my  mind,  was  the  finer 
man  of  the  two." 

To  that  letter  Henri  de  Lhoeac  returned  no 
answer.  If  it  be  wise  to  leave  alone  dogs  that 
sleep — and  the  life  must  be  a  short  one  that  does 
not  prove  its  wisdom — how  much  wiser  to  have 
nought  to  do  with  stirring  up  those  that  snap  and 
are  broad  awake  ! 

Thereafter  followed  three  tranquil  years — years 
in  which,  in  his  growing  frailty,  Guy  de  Lhoeac 
leant  more  and  more  on  Roger  Patcham  and  never 
found  the  prop  to  fail.  His  one  joy  in  life  was  to 


62  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

sit  fronting  the  hearth  in  the  great  hall,  where,  even 
in  the  heart  of  summer,  a  faggot  was  always  kept 
ablaze,  and  listen  to  Denise  singing  the  camp  chants 
which  he  himself  had  taught  her,  or  the  songs 
which  Olivier  Basselin  had  sent  out  across  all  France 
from  his  home  in  the  Vaux-de-Vire.  There,  night 
by  night  as  the  dusk  grew  to  dark,  the  two  were  to 
be  found  like  boon  companions  side  by  side,  he  in 
his  padded  chair,  Denise  upon  her  low  stool,  his 
right  hand  nursed  in  her  lap  and  her  head  resting 
against  his  arm.  And  there,  as  she  sang,  in  the 
thickening  shadows  he  died  ;  slipping  the  cord  of 
life  so  quietly  that  the  child  still  held  his  hand  and 
sung  on,  unconscious  that  the  eternal  had  drawn 
near,  even  to  within  arms-length. 

Let  the  tale  of  her  grief  pass.  If  it  is  the  blessed 
privilege  of  youth  that  sorrows  are  soon  forgotten, 
it  is  also  its  penalty  that  for  at  least  a  brief  space 
the  unreasoning,  uncomprehending  soul  of  the 
child  can  suffer  a  keener  distress  than  greyer  years. 
So  suffered  Denise,  and  with  cause.  Her  wealth 
of  personal  love  was  but  small,  and  its  greater  bulk 
had  been  swept  away  in  a  night. 

From  the  hour  of  Guy  de  Lhoeac's  death  Roger 
Patcham  stepped  unquestioned  into  the  vacated 
authority ;  unquestioned  within  the  Seigneurie, 
that  is,  but  presently,  as  was  to  be  expected,  a 
challenge  came  from  without.  How  it  came  to 
Roger's  ears  that  Henry  of  Libourne  meditated  a 
bold  stroke  for  his  own  enriching  none  knew,  but 
five  days  after  the  Seigneur  had  been  laid  to  rest  in 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  63 

the  great  vault  beneath  the  church  of  Saint  Agnes 
he  marshalled  his  fifty  men  in  the  courtyard  behind 
the  Chateau,  and  told  them  bluntly  that  the  time 
had  come  to  hold  Lhoeac  even  in  the  very  teeth  of 
my  Lord  Bishop. 

"  And,"  added  he,  "  if  any  one  of  you  mislikes 
the  getting  into  handigrips  with  the  church,  let  him 
go  in  peace  and  save  his  soul  elsewhere.  To  my 
mind  there  is  no  question  of  lay  and  cleric  and  the 
rights  of  holy  things,  but  of  Lhoeac  and  Lhoeac 
and  the  rights  of  the  child  Denise,  who  is  the  natural 
heir.  Bide  or  go,  which  ye  will,  but  understand 
this :  whosoever  bides,  and  shrinks  when  the  pinch 
comes,  even  though  it  be  from  lopping  short  my 
lord's  crozier,  by  Him  who  made  me  I  will  cut  him 
down  as  traitor  with  my  own  hand,  though  he  had 
all  the  scruples  of  the  College  of  Cardinals.  Choose 
now ;  which  ?  "  and  not  a  man  stirred  from  the  ranks. 

Three  hours'  gentle  trot  from  the  Chateau, 
Captain  Roger  halted  his  troop  of  thirty  picked 
men.  The  spot  chosen  was  where  the  Bordeaux 
road  crossed  the  bounds  of  the  Seigneurie,  for  it 
follows  that  at  Lhoeac  he  who  says  Libourne  says 
Bordeaux.  Nor  had  they  long  to  wait.  Within  an 
hour  the  trooper  Roger  had  sent  as  scout  a  half- 
league  northward  was  pounding  back  through  the 
dust  with  word  that  my  Lord  Bishop  was  following 
hard  behind. 

"And  a  mixed  crew  he  hath  at  his  back,"  he 
added.  "Six  men-at-arms,  four  monks,  and  as 
many  lackeys  with  pack-horses." 


64  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

Whereat  Captain  Roger  smiled  grimly. 

"  So  he  comes  in  the  power  of  the  Lord,  and  not 
in  the  might  of  this  world  !  Well,  so  much  the 
better.  The  Lord  is  on  the  side  of  innocence,  and 
so  there  will  be  fewer  blows  struck.  Saddle  up, 
men,  and  see  that  your  girths  are  tight,  though  I 
have  little  fear  of  an  onset.  Then  form  in  double 
line  across  the  road  a  Flemish  pikes-length  apart 
and  two  from  rank  to  rank.  By  Saint  George  !  it 
will  be  a  strong  anathema  that  will  find  its  way  to  do 
mischief  in  Lhoeac  through  such  an  array  as  that !  " 

Putting  his  horse  to  a  walk,  he  went  forward  a 
hundred  paces,  leaving  his  men  standing,  then  drew 
rein  and  sat  watching  the  oncoming  cloud  of  dust 
which,  to  his  great  discomfort,  Henri  de  Lhoeac 
carried  along  with  him.  But  thick  as  was  the  cloud 
it  could  not  hide  the  blink  of  steel  bonnets  and  the 
flash  of  polished  bridle-chains,  so  that  presently  he 
settled  down  to  a  foots-pace  and  gradually  the  dust 
blew  aside. 

"Ha!  'Tis  our  worthy  Englishmen,"  cried  he, 
spurring  to  the  front.  "  What  ?  Master  Roger 
Patcham,  are  the  Lhoeac  roads  so  unsafe  for  simple 
travellers  like  ourselves  that  thou  comest  out  with 
such  a  guard  to  meet  us  ?  Changed  days  already 
since  my  dear  brother's  death.  Well,  it  was  a 
courteous  thought.  Bid  your  fellows  turn  in  behind 
me,  and  we  will  push  forward." 

"  So  unsafe,"  answered  Roger,  "  that,  to  speak 
frankly,  I  am  here  to  bid  your  lordship  give  Lhoeac 
the  go-by." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  65 

"  Bid,  fellow  ?  Who  art  thou  to  bid  the  Seigneur 
de  Lhoeac  do  aught  but  that  which  pleases  him  ? 
Aye,  and  who  gave  thee  license  to  keep  thy  head 
covered  ?  Off  with  thy  bonnet  and  learn  manners; 
then  off  with  thyself.  Thy  day  is  done ;  Lhoeac 
has  had  overmuch  of  thieves  and  blood-suckers. 
Thy  day  is  done,  I  say." 

"You  are  my  dead  lord's  brother,  my  Lord 
Bishop,  and  so  I  would  not  willingly  fail  in  respect, 
but  a  shrewish  tongue,  whether  in  priest  or  woman, 
may  goad  a  man  into  plain  truth  at  times.  Bluntly, 
you  are  six  ;  we  are  thirty,  and  we  hold  the  road." 

"  And  by  what  right " 

From  the  pocket  of  his  buff  jacket  Roger  Patcham 
drew  a  parchment. 

"  The  right  of  law  and  the  right  of  force," 
answered  he,  "  and  'tis  not  often  the  two  pull  in 
double  harness  in  Guienne.  This  is  the  will  of  the 
Seigneur,  Guy  de  Lhoeac,  as  drawn  by  Maitre  Jean 
Deschamp,  of  the  Ruede  Tutelle  in  Bordeaux.  He 
holds  the  original,  signed  by  the  said  Seigneur, 
sealed  with  his  own  cypher,  and  countersigned  by 
five  witnesses  who  are  all  yet  living,  two  being 
churchmen." 

"  Aye,  aye  ;  and  what  then  ?  " 

"  Bid  your  men  turn  back  fifty  paces,  my  Lord 
Bishop,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  then." 

"  But,"  said  de  Lhoeac  uneasily,  "  if  this  should 
be  a  snare  ?  " 

"  Have  I  not  thirty  snares  at  my  back  ? "  an- 
swered the  other  impatiently.  "  That  they  bide 
where  they  are  is  my  proof  of  faith." 


66  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

At  a  gesture  from  their  master  the  mixed  troop 
of  priests,  soldiers,  and  servitors  drew  to  the  rear 
out  of  earshot,  where,  at  the  command  of  a  second 
gesture  they  halted,  facing  the  pair  left  midway  be- 
tween the  two  troops. 

"  Now,  Master  Patcham,  make  an  end  of  these 
mysteries.  Granted  that  all  is  as  thou  hast  said, 
again  I  ask,  What  then  ?  " 

"  It  was  for  your  sake,  my  Lord  Bishop — nay, 
that  is  not  true,  since  you  are  nought  to  me  ;  it  was 
for  Lhoeac's  sake  ;  for  sake  of  the  love  and  rever- 
ence I  bear  the  dead,  that ' 

"Tut,  have  done,  man.  To  preach  is  my  affair, 
not  yours,  and  what  I  mislike  in  myself  I  love  less 
in  others.  A  moment  since  you  spoke  of  force  and 
law.  The  first  I  see  and  admit,  though  this  is  the 
King's  highway,  and  in  such  force  there  is  little  of 
law.  What  of  law,  Master  Patcham  ?  " 

For  answer  Roger  Patcham  tapped  the  parch- 
ment. 

"  Law  for  all  France,"  said  he.  "  Listen,  my  lord. 
Lhoeac  is  left  to  me  ;  understand,  to  me  ;  in  trust 
for  the  child  Denise,  and  by  the  Lord  God  who 
made  me,  neither  Pope,  bishop,  nor  priest  shall 
touch  my  right  with  so  much  as  a  finger-tip." 

"  To  thee,  fellow  ?  Lhoeac  left  in  thy  hands  ? 
My  brother  was  mad  !  " 

"  The  Seigneur,  your  brother,  knew  men,  my 
lord.  I  say  no  more,  and  I  could  say  no  less." 

"And  the  next  thing  will  be  that  there  is  no 
Denise,  no  heiress  of  Lhoeac,  no  trust ;  and  that 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  67 

thou  art  Seigneur  !  God  give  me  patience !  Roger 
Patcham,  the  hireling  trooper,  Seigneur  of  Lhoeac  ! 
A  pretty  plot,  by  Saint  Agnes ! " 

"  This  is  my  lord's  message,"  answered  Patcham, 
keeping  his  temper  and  giving  no  heed  to  the  other's 
anger ;  "  and  it  is  for  the  giving  of  it  that  we  two 
are  here  alone  :  '  Tell  my  brother,  and  bid  him  chew 
well  the  telling,  that  if  Denise  die  short  of  a  woman's 
age — short  of  twenty  that  is — I  have  left  the  King 
my  heir ;  and  he  will  be  a  shrewd  bishop  that  picks 
such  a  plum  as  Lhoeac  out  of  the  King's  pocket. 
He  will  know  the  wherefore  of  this.  Say  to  him 
further;  that  in  spite  of  Saint  Dominic  he  is  still  of 
the  Lhoeac  stock,  and  so  I  command  that  when 
Denise  comes  to  her  own  she  shall  pay  him  sixteen 
thousand  crowns  ;  but  let  him  know  that  the  pay- 
ment is  more  for  the  child's  sake  than  for  his  own. 
Again  he  will  know  why.'  All  that,  my  Lord 
Bishop,  is  there ; "  and  Roger  Patcham  struck  the 
folded  parchment  with  the  back  of  his  hand  till  it 
rang  like  a  pistol-shot. 

"  Aye,  aye,  granted  that  I  believe  thee,  though  I 
do  not  say  that  I  do,  the  Seigneur  was  mad  and 
doting,  and  the  will  cannot  stand." 

"  If  there  is  a  law  in  France  that  will  spoil  the 
King  of  his  presumptive  heirship,  I  have  yet  to  hear 
of  it,"  answered  the  other.  "  The  Seigneur  had  a 
grey  wit,  and  the  will  shall  stand." 

"  Rogue ! "  burst  out  de  Lhoeac,  foaming. 
"What  fiend's  guile  taught  him  that  trick?  But 
again  :  granting  what  thou  sayest  is  true,  and  that 


68  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

there  is  no  justice  in  France  for  a  robbed  man,  what 
hinders  me  from  entering  Lhoeac  if  I  will  ?  Thou 
canst  not  bide  there  for  ever." 

"  Enter  and  welcome,"  retorted  Roger.  "I  pray 
God  you  may;  for  it  is  so  written  here  that  if 
Henri  de  Lhoeac  set  foot  within  the  Seigneurie 
while  the  wardship  lasts  the  sixteen  thousand 
crowns  are  cut  in  half.  But  that  I  am  an  honest 
man,  Lord  Bishop,  and  so  stayed  you  at  the  bound- 
ary, the  sixteen  had  already  been  eight.  Enter 
and  welcome,  I  say ;  it  is  so  much  more  in  the 
pocket  of  Mademoiselle  Denise." 

Round  in  his  stirrups  swung  de  Lhoeac,  and, 
leaving  his  left  hand  on  his  horse's  haunches,  jerked 
his  head  backward. 

"  Hulloa  !  To  me !  "  he  cried  ;  and  so  remained, 
waiting  till  his  troop  came  up.  Then  he  turned  to 
the  perplexed  Englishman,  who,  not  knowing  what 
next  might  follow,  had  tightened  his  reins  to  be  in 
readiness  for  the  first  danger. 

"  I  am  a  man  of  peace,  Master  Bully,"  he  went 
on,  speaking  loudly  so  that  all  might  hear.  "  Thy 
might  makes  right,  as  is  too  much  the  case  in  this 
unhappy  land.  Swagger  home,  thou  and  thy  cut- 
throats, and  boast  of  thy  prowess ;  thirty  men  have 
turned  back  six !  Well,  be  it  so  ;  but  remember 
there  is  a  God,  and  Belial  will  not  always  triumph, 
nor  might  be  always  right.  Come,  men,  and  let  us 
seek  honester  company." 

With  a  jerk  of  the  bridle  he  wrenched  his  beast 
round,  and  riding  through  his  troop  left  Roger 
Patcham  staring. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  69 

"  Peste  !  "  said  he  to  the  world  at  large  as  his  wits 
cleared.  "  That  was  a  cunning  move.  He  saves 
his  crowns  and  reputation,  flouts  me,  and  damns 
Lhoeac,  all  with  one  breath ! " 

Thereafter  neither  by  word  nor  act  did  the  of- 
fended Bishop  deign  to  condescend  to  Lhoeac,  save 
that  once  a  year  he  formally  invited  his  dear  niece 
to  his  palace  at  Libourne  ;  an  invitation  which  was 
as  formally  refused. 

But  though  no  other  direct  communication 
reached  the  Seigneurie,  the  man  himself  was  too 
restless  and  adroit  to  stay  hidden  in  a  corner. 
Bruitings  of  his  growing  power  both  in  church  and 
state  were  loud  and  frequent,  and  at  the  least  there 
were  not  a  few  who  ascribed  the  peacefulness  and 
prosperity  of  Lhoeac  to  the  vigilant  protection  of 
the  masterful  prelate — a  notion  carefully  fostered 
by  Roger  Patcham. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  he  when  the  more  candid  but 
duller  witted  dame  Therese  took  him  to  task  for 
his  crookedness.  "  A  rotten  tree  may  shelter  a 
man  from  the  heat  as  well  as  would  a  sappy  trunk. 
Let  Lhoeac  suck  good  from  what  it  can.  My  faith  ! 
Mademoiselle  hath  not  much  to  thank  her  uncle 
for." 

And  suck  good  did  Lhoeac,  prospering  within 
and  without,  even  to  the  addition  of  a  small  estate 
in  Piedmont,  though  it  was  an  accession  at  which 
Roger  Patcham  looked  askance. 

"  \Ve  have  both  pockets  full  as  it  is,"  he  grumbled, 
"  and  a  hundred  and  fifty  leagues  away  is  a  far  cry. 


70  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

Besides,  he  who  said  '  Italy  is  the  grave  of  France  ' 
said  right." 

Then  with  characteristic  caution,  and  in  spite  of 
his  grumbling,  he  set  himself  to  see  that  not  a  rood 
of  its  lands  slipped  through  Mademoiselle's  small 
fingers  ;  so  that  in  the  House  of  Life  and  of  Posses- 
sions all  was  well  with  the  child. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK. 
I. 

FOR  two  more  years  after  the  death  of  her  grand- 
sire,  old  Guy  de  Lhoeac,  the  child  Denise  ran  wild, 
a  sturdy,  honest-hearted  elf  of  the  woods  and  fields, 
with  body  and  mind  alike  in  health,  but  with  little 
growth  in  the  latter.  Then  Captain  Roger  Pat- 
cham  and  dame  Therese  held  a  counsel  over  her, 
with  a  result  that  two  things  became  clear — one, 
that  for  the  heiress  of  Lhoeac  lissomeness  and 
strength  of  frame  were  not  enough  unless  the  child 
were  to  grow  up  no  better  than  a  gilded  peasant ; 
and,  further,  that  she  must  needs  have  fitting  com- 
panionship of  her  own  age. 

"  She  is  my  very  life,"  said  the  dame,  shaking  her 
great  white  cap,  "  but  that  she  should  lord  it  as  she 
does  is  not  good.  On  my  word  I  think  children 
are  so  many  Barbary  Turks  for  ruthlessness,  and 
Denise  is  no  better  than  the  rest.  We  must  put 
ourselves  below  stairs,  I'm  thinking,  and  set  some 
grand  dame  to  train  her,  a  learned  priest  to  school 
her,  and  another  like  herself  to  fine  her  down. 
Trust  a  child  to  set  another  child  to  rights!  They 
know  each  other's  tricks  and  thwart  them,  and  so 
misuse  grows  to  disuse." 

"  Aye,"   answered    Roger  Patcham,   pulling  his 


72  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

grizzled  moustache  thoughtfully  ;  "to  say  '  must ' 
is  easy,  but  the  'doing'  is  another  matter.  How 
can  such  as  we  pick  and  choose?  A  sword,  or  a 
pike,  or  a  musketoon,  now,  you  can  judge  by  the 
haft  and  swing ;  but  grand  dames  and  priests  ! 
That  is  where  my  Lord  Bishop  would  come  in  ;  but, 
saving  your  presence,  dame,  I  would  sooner  seek 
them  from  the  devil." 

"  Aye,  I  know,  I  know ;  and  mayhap  be  as  well 
served.  We  have  had  priests  enough  from  Henri 
de  Lhoeac,  though  we  have  had  but  one.  The 
curate  of  Saint  Agnes  might  serve  at  a  pinch.  He 
is  a  humble  soul,  and  will  do  as  he  is  bid,  as  the 
lesser  clergy  should  ;  which  is  no  small  gain,  since 
you  cannot  change  cassocks  as  you  would  shoes. 
Thou  and  I,  Captain  Roger,  are  not  Seigneurs  of 
Lhoeac,  and  we  thrive  best  with  the  church  by 
singing  small.  As  to  the  grand  dame  and  the 
child,  why — aye,  it  is  the  very  thing.  Seek  out 
young  Madame's  folk.  The  Seigneur  never  loved 
them,  and  I'll  wager  they  think  him  still  alive  and 
so  keep  clear  of  Lhoeac." 

So  it  was  settled.  With  four  men  at  his  back  to 
do  him  honour  and  give  his  mission  weight,  Roger 
Patcham  crossed  the  passes  into  Italy,  and  the  tale 
of  how  he  fared  in  no  way  comes  into  the  life  of 
Denise  de  Lhoeac,  save  in  so  far  that  he  brought 
back  with  him  an  elder  and  a  younger  Catherine 
Cavallazzi — penniless  gentlefolks  and  her  cousins 
thrice  removed. 

To  them  Lhoeac  was  more  than  a  refuge.    It  was 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.  73 

the  rooting  out  from  life  of  the  thousand  petty 
carks  and  sordid  cares  that  early  sour  the  sweetness 
of  even  youth  itself,  and  the  planting  in  of  peace 
and  love,  and  that  blessed  security  from  pinching 
want  that  can  stretch  out  a  hand  even  to  the  future 
unafraid.  It  was  as  if  into  their  poverty  and  daily 
grind  of  anxious  thought  had  come  the  calm  and 
benediction  of  a  higher  world. 

So  the  meek  and  courteous  lady,  the  gentle  girl 
her  daughter,  and  the  hardier,  more  imperious 
Denise  grew  into  one  another's  lives,  and  as  the 
years  passed  the  wisdom  of  dame  Therese  was 
justified. 

But  for  all  the  peace  that  blessed  Lhoeac,  these 
years  that  followed  the  coming  of  Catherine  Caval- 
lazzi  to  the  Seigneurie  were  stirring  years  for  the 
world.  In  them  Columbus  gave  a  new  continent 
to  Spain ;  Charles  the  Eighth  went  groping  after 
the  chimera  of  Italian  dominion,  and  the  spoiler 
came  back  spoiled ;  Roderigo  Borgia  became  the 
infamy  of  Rome  under  the  name  of  Alexander  the 
Sixth  ;  Savonarola  laid  down  his  life  in  fire  ;  France 
grew  the  stronger  by  Brittany,  and  the  weaker  by 
Rousillon  and  a  disastrous  campaign ;  Henry  of 
Lhoeac  climbed  higher  in  power  and  more  towering 
in  ambition,  adding  to  Libourne  the  Bishopric  of 
Saint-Seurin.  Finally,  the  direct  line  of  Valois 
failed,  Charles  of  the  elder  branch  went  to  his  own 
place  and  Louis  of  Orleans  succeeded  to  a  long- 
coveted  inheritance.  But  all  this  passed  Lhoeac 
by.  What  cared  its  peasants  for  the  making  or 


74  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

breakings  of  empire.  Within  the  Seigneurie  they 
planted,  they  sowed,  they  reaped  ;  fat  years  of 
peace  trod  one  upon  the  other  with  no  room  be- 
tween for  loss  or  discord  till  as  a  child,  so  now  as  a 
woman,  Denise  disturbed  the  quiet. 

"  Tis  very  well  for  you,  Father  Roger,"  she  de- 
clared, "  to  be  content  year  in  and  year  out.  When 
the  itch  for  life  creeps  into  your  blood  you  whistle 
up  Martin  Noret  and  bid  him  make  ready  a  span  of 
men,  and  off  you  go  a-hunting  ;  wolves  or  your 
fellows  as  the  whim  takes  you  or  the  itch  drives. 
But  when  I  would  go  a  bare  half-league  from 
Lhoeac  there  is  as  much  ado  as  if  Queen  Anne 
went  on  a  progress." 

"  That,"  said  he,  "  is  lest  the  hunter  should  be 
the  hunted.  France  has  but  one  queen,  we  have 
but  one  mistress,  and  there  are  men — 

"  La,  la,  la  !  "  cried  she,  waving  him  down  with 
open  hand.  "  Hunted,  quotha  !  Small  chance  of 
that !  As  to  men,  here  is  Caterina,  one-and-twenty, 
sweet,  tall,  and  fair  as  any  Madonna  lily,  and  never 
so  much  as  a  man  to  tell  her  so.  Lord  !  Madame, 
look  how  she  blushes !  Madonna  lily  !  'Tis  a  rose 
peony.  If  thou  gettest  so  red  at  the  very  name  of 
a  lover,  where  wouldst  thou  find  breath  to  say 
'Thank  you  kindly  '  to  the  thing  itself?" 

But  for  all  that  she  jested  Roger  Patcham  took 
the  jest  seriously. 

"  There  is  young  de  Crete,"  he  began  gravely. 

"  A  buff  jerkin  hung  on  a  pikestaff,"  cried  Den- 
ise, her  brown  eyes  dancing  as  she  saw  the  fish  had 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.  75 

bitten.  "  If  I  were  a  hunting  dog,  now,  or  even  a 
horse,  de  Crete  might  please  me  and  I  de  Crete,  for 
with  them  his  thoughts  both  begin  and  have  an 
end.  But  I  being  a  woman  and  he  what  he  is,  thou 
must  think  again." 

"  La  Clazonne  is  a  comely  lad " 

"  Give  him  to  Caterina,  then  ;  I  want  a  man  to 
woo  me,  and  not  a  red-cheeked  girl.  Try  another 
cast  of  the  net,  Father  Roger." 

"  La  Clazonne  is  no  fool,"  answered  Patcham. 
"  Give  him  another  year  or  two,  and  his  red  cheeks 
—which  you  have  not  seen  these  three  years — will 
be  nut-brown  and  his  girlish  roundness  a  man's 
strength.  Then,  his  land  marches  with  Lhoeac, 
and  when  the  old  lord  dies 

"  La,  la,  la !  Lhoeac  is  big  enough  for  its  mis 
tress  to  please  herself.  Rack  your  brain  yet  again, 
I  say." 

"  H'm,  truly,  when  the  question  is  weighed  thus 

I  own  I  am Madame,  such  things  are  more  in 

your  way  than  mine,  though  Lhoeac  is  not  to  be 
flung  to  the  first  comer." 

"No,  by  Saint  Agnes!  No;  nor  its  mistress 
either ; "  and  Denise  stood  over  him  to  the  full  of 
her  inches.  For  all  her  slender  build  she  was  no 
weakling,  and  could  look  many  a  man  level  in  the 
eyes.  "  We  are  not  chattels,  either  one  or  other, 
Seigneurie  or  Denise  de  Lhoeac." 

"  There  is  Claud  de  la  Terre-Seche,"  said  Madame 
Cavallazzi,  looking  up  from  her  embroidery  frame ; 
"  but,  Denise,  ma  mie,  this  sifting  of  lovers  even  in 
a  jest  is " 


76  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  Aye,  Madame  Maman,  I  know,  I  know.  But 
Lhoeac  is  dull,  and  dullness  is  either  a  child  of  evil 
or  evil  of  dullness,  nor  does  it  matter  a  tags-point 
which  when  the  two  go  hand  in  hand.  As  for 
Messire  Claud,  let  him  marry  a  monastery.  If  a 
priest  would  serve  my  turn  I  should  choose  old 
Pere  Junot,  who  has  taught  me  all  these  years  and 
has  himself  learned  this  much  in  his  teaching :  that 
when  I  say  yea  or  nay,  yea  or  nay  it  is,  and  that's 
an  end  of  it.  Merci  for  Messire  Claud,  Madame 
Maman  !  Who  next,  Father  Roger  ?  What  ?  Is 
that  the  tale  of  the  list  ?  A  boor,  a  milksop,  and  a 
monk !  A  pretty  choice  for  Denise  de  Lhoeac,  to 
say  nought  of  Caterina.  I  would  carve  better  men 
out  of  carrots.  What  ?  No  more  than  three  for 
two  maids  to  choose  from  ! 

Pity  ye  our  grievous  woe  ; 

Never  gallant  comes  our  way  : 
Love  sits  by  with  broken  bow  ; 

Nought  hath  he 

Thou  are  right,  ma  mie  Maman  of  the  reproachful 
eyes  ;  Denise  is  naughty.  And  yet,  what  is  Lhoeac 
but  a  cage  and  we  a  pair  of  pigeons  pent  within  it  ?  " 
Stopping  short  in  her  song,  she  threw  her  arms 
round  the  elder  woman,  to  the  great  discomforture 
of  an  elaborate  headgear,  and  so  made  her  peace 
with  an  embrace  that  was  half-jest,  half-earnest,  and 
altogether  honest.  Indeed,  there  were  few  who 
could  long  be  at  odds  with  Denise  de  Lhoeac  if  she 
once  chose  to  set  herself  to  wheedle  them  into 
complaisance. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.          77 

"  A  cage  !  "  cried  Captain  Roger,  picking  up  her 
words,  "  a  pretty  cage,  truly,  that  runs  fourteen 
miles  to  the  north,  five  to  the  south,  four  to  the 
east,  and  twelve  to  the  west !  God  send  us  all  such 
cages  !  Room  enough  there,  mademoiselle,  for  any 
pigeon  to  flap  wings  and  yet  never  beat  the  bars." 

"Aye,"  she  persisted,  with  a  nod  of  her  head. 
"  Yet,  if  it  were  as  long  and  as  broad  as  all  France, 
it  would  be  no  more  than  a  cage  if  I  fretted  to  pass 
beyond  and  could  not.  Tis  the  '  bide  where  thou 
art '  that  makes  the  cage  and  not  the  length  of 
perch.  So,  now  see  how  it  is.  Since  the  world  will 
not  come  to  Lhoeac,  Lhoeac  must  go  to  the  world. 
Libourne  for  choice." 

"  Because  of  my  Lord  Bishop,"  said  Roger 
sourly ;  "  but  since  my  Lord  Bishop  has  had  two 
mitres  for  his  one  head  he  is  no  longer  at  Libourne. 
It  was  too  small  for  him,  and  presently  I  think  he 
will  outgrow  Bordeaux  itself." 

"  Bordeaux  then  before  he  outgrows  it." 

But  Roger  Patcham  shook  his  head.  "  Not  with 
my  will,"  he  said,  setting  his  face  in  a  fashion  Denise 
understood  well,  and  respected  for  all  that  it  crossed 
her  purpose.  She  could  trust  Father  Roger  to  have 
sound  sense  for  his  yea  or  nay,  and  the  more  so 
since  he  seldom  thwarted  her.  "  No !  not  for  all 
Guienne." 

"  And  why  ? "  she  persisted,  rather  to  save  her 
retreat  than  force  her  point. 

"  The  air  of  Bordeaux  is  unwholesome  for  Lhoeac. 
Try  another  cast  of  the  net." 


78  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  Why  not  Meluzza  ? ''  It  was  Madame  Catherine 
who  spoke. 

"  Meluzza  !  "  and  Patcham  fairly  gasped.  "  Why 
'tis  a  fifteen  days'  journey." 

"  Meluzza  !  "  echoed  Denise,  clapping  her  hands. 
"  Ma  mie  Maman,  thou  art  the  dearest,  the  sweetest, 
the Oh,  Denise  must  kiss  thee  for  that  !  " 

Again  the  headgear  was  in  danger  of  destruction  ; 
but  not  for  long.  Roger  Patcham  must  be 
wheedled  into  consenting,  and  quickly  lest  he  should 
say  no ! 

"  'Tis  Meluzza,  is  it  not,  Father  Roger?"  and 
she  twisted  his  stiff  moustache  with  dexterous 
fingers-as  she  leaned  across  his  shoulder.  "Italy 
for  Maman  and  Caterina — look  how  her  eyes  shine 
at  the  thought.  That  is  the  fire  to  set  tinder 
aflame.  I'll  warrant  thou  shalt  have  three  gallants 
within  a  week,  and  all  a-cutting  one  another's 
throats  for  love.  Aye  !  it  is  a  shame  to  tease  thee. 
Italy  for  them,  Father  Roger — they  are  butterflies 
and  want  pleasuring — and  forme  life  and  its  serious 
duties,  and  to  visit  my  mother's  kindred.  It  is  full 
time  I  saw  Meluzza.  Besides,  we  may  meet  rogues 
on  the  way,  and  thou  hast  not  hung  a  man  for  a 
week  !  Fifteen  days'  journey  !  Why,  'tis  nothing ; 
I  would  it  were  a  hundred  and  fifty,  since  the  longer 
it  is  there  is  the  more  room  for  change.  It  is  yes, 
is  it  not?"  and  she  rubbed  her  chin  softly  against 
his  crisp  crop  of  hair  as  she  bent  over  him. 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle,  Mademoiselle,  I  think  you 
could  lure  a  bird  from  a  bough  if  you  had  a   mind 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.  79 

to !     There   will   be    sore    hearts     some    of   these 

days " 

"  All  in  good  time,"  said  she  cheerfully,  "  but 
there  are  none  now,  for  that  means  yes,  Father 
Roger.  Caterina  mia,  we  must  make  a  new  verse 
to  our  song — 

Hasten,  boy,  and  string  thy  bow, 
See  thy  quiver  lacks  not  darts  ; 
Thou  and  we  a-hunting  go 

Fill  up  the  last  line  as  thou  wilt,  Caterina.  Hearts 
or  Smarts  as  thou  likest  best !  I'll  wager  thou  wilt 
give  the  one  the  other  before  we  see  Lhoeac 
again." 

II. 

What  is  a  poor  gentleman  and  soldier  of  fortune 
to  do  when  war  turns  peace  and  princes  fight  their 
battles  by  shifts  of  crooked  policy  instead  of  honest 
fire  and  sword  ?  That  the  one  may  be  as  deadly  as 
the  other  is  no  comfort  to  the  blunt  captain  who,  in 
the  way  of  duty  and  having  no  conscience  but  ht3 
general's,  would  burn  a  church  sooner  than  face  a 
Court. 

How  many  a  one  found  answer  to  the  question 
w.is  shown  in  the  hundred  and  one  bands  of  brigands 
which  plagued  every  petty  state  in  Italy.  To  them 
rapine  by  license  of  war,  and  rapine  by  license  of  the 
stronger  arm  and  bolder  heart,  were  one  and  the 
same,  save  that  the  latter  had  the  added  risk  of  a 
sliding  noose. 


8o  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

But  Messire  Carlo  Perego  could  not  so  easily 
solve  the  difficulty.  For  his  ten  years  of  manhood 
he  had  kept  his  hands  as  clean  as  a  poor  gentleman 
could  whose  trade  was  to  fight  and  do  as  he  was  bid, 
asking  no  curious  questions.  For  all  his  poverty, 
and  the  strange  bedfellows  into  whose  company  it 
had  many  a  time  brought  him,  he  had  never  lost 
his  inborn  respect  for  a  certain  Carlo  Perego  who 
came  of  an  honourable  line.  The  scum  of  the 
camp,  as  poor  in  crowns  as  himself  and  as  rich  in 
brute  courage — his  equals  in  the  sense  of  fighting 
value — was  still  scum,  and  a  foulness  to  be  passed 
by  as  needfully  as  a  man  with  but  one  pair  of 
breeches  passes  the  mire  of  the  road ;  nor,  in  his 
ten  years  of  rough  schooling,  had  he  learned  that 
quaint  trick  of  humour  that  finds  every  cheat  a 
merry  jest,  a  lie  but  a  kind  of  quip,  and  the  weak- 
ness of  woman  a  thing  of  prey  and  laughter. 

At  all  times  crowns  were  slow  to  come  and  swift 
to  go,  and  now,  since  the  peace — or  what  in  Italy 
passed  for  peace — which  followed  the  French  retreat 
through  Savoy,  the  flow  had  not  alone  been  swift, 
but  all  one  way.  Yet,  turn  frank  bandit  and  play 
the  human  wolf  he  could  not.  Therefore,  for  three 
bitter  months  he  rusted  and  soured,  the  bottom  of 
his  pocket  coming  daily  to  his  hand  with  a  sorrow- 
ful and  most  discomforting  ease. 

At  last,  of  all  his  ten  years'  spoils — never  much, 
since  the  princes  and  great  lords  had  first  to  be 
gorged — there  remained  nothing  but  the  clothes  on 
his  back,  patched  and  well-worn  ;  the  blade  by  his 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.  81 

side,  notched  and  unpolished ;  and  the  beast  he 
rode,  a  thing  as  forlorn  and  weary  of  hungry  life  as 
himself.  Then  it  was  that  the  devil,  in  the  fitting 
shape  of  Luigidi  Gadola,  and  with  a  cunning  know- 
ledge of  his  weakness,  came  and  tempted  him. 

On  the  face  of  things — but  that  was  a  wile  of  the 
evil  one — it  was  a  fair  enough  offer  of  most  honour- 
able employment,  and  as  such,  in  his  dire  necessity, 
Messire  Carlo  Perego  received  it,  hoodwinking  his 
soul  for  a  brief  hour  after  the  fashion  of  most  men 
at  some  pinch  or  other  in  life. 

The  two  had  foregathered  at  a  little  wine-shop  in 
the  outskirts  of  Turin,  a  dismal,  evil-smelling  den, 
and  no  place  for  a  man  of  di  Gadola's  wealth,  how- 
ever suited  to  the  other's  poverty.  Nor  was  it  their 
first  acquaintance.  There  are  camp  scum  in  silken 
doublets  as  well  as  in  tattered  jerkins,  greater  rogues 
by  reason  of  their  greater  power,  since  your  rascal, 
high  or  low,  is  the  creature  of  opportunity ;  and  as 
one  of  such  Carlo  Perego  had  more  than  once 
turned  his  back  on  Luigi  di  Gadola.  But  di  Gadola 
had  been  all  unconscious  of  the  slight,  and  merely 
marked  his  man  as  one  having  a  cool  head,  a  quick 
wit,  and  a  light  purse.  Now,  having  crossed  him  in 
the  streets  of  Turin  and  tracked  him  to  the  sign  of 
"  The  Golden  Pigeon,"  he  looked  to  buy  the  two 
first  by  grace  of  the  last,  for  it  was  clear  to  his  con- 
tempt that  Carlo  Perego  was  woefully  out-at-elbows. 

Nevertheless,  having  somewhat  to  gain,  Luigi  di 
Gadola  hid  his  contempt  and  played  the  frank 
comrade. 


82  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  Ha  !  old  friend  !  "  he  cried,  dropping  an  open 
palm  familiarly  on  Perego's  shoulder.  "  This  is 
better  than  Fornovo  !  My  faith  !  but  the  French 
gave  us  a  bad  half-hour  that  July  day." 

"  Yet  of  the  two  I  choose  Fornovo,"  answered 
Perego,  with  a  curt  nod  of  greeting,  for  it  galled 
him  to  see  how  the  other's  eyes  noted  each  frayed 
edge  and  tell-tale  threadbare  patch.  "  There  at 
least,  there  was  a  man's  work  to  be  done." 

"  Aye  !  and  thou  wert  ever  a  glutton  for  a  man's 
work.  Host  !  another  measure  of  wine  here.  On 
my  word  as  a  gentleman  I  have  drunk  worse  a 
hundred  times  and  been  thankful.  Does  the  rogue 
steal  it,  d'ye  think?  A  glutton  for  work  !  that  was 
ever  Carlo  Perego  !  Dost  thou  remember  how  I 
and  thou,  though,  faith  !  thou  wast  leading — how 
thou " 

"  Keep  your  thou's  for  your  familiars  and  your 
lackeys,  Messire  di  Gadola.  I  am  neither  one  nor 
other." 

"  Plague  take  the  hot  temper  of  the  man  !  "  and 
di  Gadola's  foxy,  wizened  face  wrinkled  into  what 
he  meant  to  be  a  genial  smile.  "  We  were  com- 
rades, were  we  not  ?  What  ?  Comrades,  I  say. 
Aye!  and  may  be  again.  Are  you  your  own 
master,  Messire  ?  " 

"  Aye  !  "  answered  Perego,  with  a  hard  laugh  ; 
"  and  a  poor  service  it  is,  with  the  wages  paid  in  a 
curse  every  hour  of  the  day." 

"So?  Then  this  is  my  lucky  day.  Casa  Fos- 
cotti  has  need  of  a  military  governor,  Messire 
Perego.  What  do  you  say  to  the  post  ?  " 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.  83 

"  Casa  Foscotti  ?  " 

"  My  poor  house  in  Piedmont.  "Tis  the  captaincy 
of  thirty  men,  and  a  free  hand  over  them.  No  great 
thing  for  such  a  man  as  you,  but  a  stop-gap,  perhaps, 
until  times  are  better." 

"  A  free  hand  ! "  said  Perego,  thoughtfully,  as  he 
eyed  closely  the  mean  and  cunning  face  turned 
towards  him  across  the  angle  of  the  table.  "  What 
may  that  mean,  Messire  di  Gadola?  " 

"That?  Why  it  means  this" — and  Luigi  di 
Gadola  shifted  his  gaze  to  a  cobweb  in  the  further 
corner  of  the  wine-shop — "  save  for  a  thing  or  two 
which  may  touch  myself — my  neighbours  do  not 
love  me  over-well — I  shall  be  nothing  more  than 
friend  and  comrade.  But  in  these  things — you 
know  our  Italy,  its  enmities,  feuds,  revenges,  and 
how  a  man  must  guard  his  life  even  though  he 
strike  at  another  in  the  guarding — in  these  things, 
I  say,  I  must  play  the  master,  the  general  as  it  were, 
and  you — no  offence,  Messire  Perego — you  must 
obey  so  long  as  you  draw  your  forty  crowns  a 
month,  paid  in  advance." 

"  Forty  crowns  a  month  ?  "  In  imagination  Carlo 
Perego  could  hear  his  last  two  coins  jingle  in  his 
lean  purse  as  he  looked  round  the  filthy,  reeking 
hole  into  which  his  sordid  poverty  had  thrust  him. 
"  And  only  such  duties  as  a  man's  honour " 

Down  came  di  Gadola's  clenched  fist  on  the  table 
with  such  a  will  as  made  even  the  heavy  wooden 
beakers  dance  and  stagger. 

"  Am  I  a  man  to  set  to  such  a  one  as  you  a  task  I 


84  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

would  not  face  myself?  There  may  be  danger, 
Messire  Perego — I  grant  frankly  that  I  am  not 
loved,  and  there  may  be  danger ;  but  talk  not  to  me 
of  dishonour.  'Tis  an  offence,  an  offence,  I  say  :  or 
would  be  were  we  not  comrades  and  friends.  'Tis 
for  that  I  let  it  pass.  Are  you  answered,  Messire 
Perego  ?  " 

Which,  though  it  was  no  answer,  and  both  knew 
it,  was  yet  the  right  way  to  take  Carlo  Perego,  for 
being  himself  a  man  of  honour  as  times  went,  it  cut 
against  his  grain  to  say  bluntly  that  he  took  another 
to  be  no  better  than  a  rogue. 

Thus  it  came  that  for  forty  crowns  he  bought  his 
ease  and  sold  himself  a  month  ahead  to  Luigi  di 
Gadola,  who  was  not  the  man  to  come  worst  out  of 
a  bargain.  Not,  indeed,  that  the  penniless  gentle- 
man had  much  to  complain  of.  That  he  was  little 
better  than  a  hired  bravo  he  knew,  but  princes  and 
sovereign  states  had  set  the  fashion  of  hiring  bravos 
to  further  their  revenges,  aye,  and  had  ennobled 
them,  too,  when  their  work  was  well  done ;  and  so  of 
late  the  trade  had  grown  into  good  repute.  So  long 
as  di  Gadola  left  him  a  free  hand  as  to  methods  he 
was  content.  What  was  it,  after  all,  but  war  on  a 
minor  scale? — Casa  Foscotti  against  Castelnuovo 
instead  of  Medici  at  the  throat  of  Este !  Units 
at  stake  instead  of  thousands. 

That  it  was  in  violation  of  law  troubled  him  no 
whit  more  than  the  spoiling  of  Milan  troubled  a 
Sforza.  Law,  forsooth !  A  pretty  thing  it  would  be 
if  the  law  were  to  take  upon  itself  to  settle  quarrels 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.  85 

of  honour  and  the  like!  These  were  things  of  con- 
science, and  above  the  law.  Therefore  he  pro- 
visioned Casa  Foscotti,  set  his  sentries,  guarded 
Luigi  di  Gadola,  aye,  and  made  his  sorties  and 
fought  his  frays  also,  without  so  much  as  a  dis- 
comforting wrinkle  in  his  serenity  of  conscience. 
Blood  was  shed ;  lives  were  lost ;  there  was  even  a 
burning  or  two ;  but  it  was  all  frank,  fair  fighting 
and  according  to  the  code  of  honour. 

Too  much  so  to  please  his  patron  if  the  truth 
were  known.  But  Luigi  di  Gadola  understood  his 
man,  and  so  pressed  him  to  take  no  discourteous 
advantage  lest  a  rupture  follow  before  his  work 
was  fully  done.  To  play  the  master  was  a  card  to 
be  kept  for  some  supreme  necessity. 

On  his  first  coming  to  Casa  Foscotti,  di  Gadola 
had  taken  him  up  to  the  broad  parapet  that  lay 
behind  the  crenellated  coping  of  the  Castle  wall. 

"  You  are  military  governor,  Messire ;  therefore 
mark  our  strength.  Here  are  we  perched  on  this 
rounded  mound.  Behind  is  a  bare  ravine  of  two 
bowshots  width,  and  backed  by  sloping  rocks.  A 
goat  might  come  that  way,  but  nothing  on  two  legs. 
That  is  the  north.  To  right  and  left  these  hills  run 
south-east  and  south-west.  The  valley — anima  mia  / 
what  a  valley  it  is  ! — the  very  fatness  of  Piedmont. 
May  Paolo  Besana  burn  everlastingly  for  his — but 
we  shall  come  to  that  presently  ;  'tis  the  sorrow  and 
hope  of  Casa  Foscotti.  The  valley,  I  say,  runs 
south.  All  day  long  the  sun  streams  into  it,  and  a 
man  might  hunt  the  world  through  and  never  find 


86  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

such  corn-lands,  such  vineyards,  such — saints !  it 
bursts  my  gall  to  think  of  them  and  della  Besana's 
accursed  folly !  All  that  you  see,  Messire,  from  the 
ridge  behind,  round  by  these  slopes  and  into  the 
glare  where  a  man  blinks  in  the  sun  at  noon,  aye,  and 
beyond  these  slopes,  all  that  is  Foscotti.  Further 
south  lie  the  lands  of  Montalbano.  To  the  sunrise  is 
La  Manza.  Be  wary  of  these,  Messire,  in  making 
friendships,  for  there  is  some  small  question  of  blood 
between  us." 

"A  quarrel  of  long  standing?"  inquired  Perego 
as  di  Gadola  relapsed  into  silence,  and  fell  a-staring 
at  the  mid-distance  where  the  fatness  which  had  so 
stirred  his  wrath  lay  in  dazzled  light  and  shade — 
grove,  vineyard,  and  pasture — "  and  one  that  touches 
Casa  Foscotti  nearly  ?  " 

"  Of  some  five-and-thirty  years  with  Montalbano, 
and,  on  my  life,  I  have  forgotten  the  wherefore. 
These  things  slip  a  man's  memory  in  time,  but  the 
wound  remains.  With  La  Manza  it  is  of  yesterday 
no  more  than  eight  or  ten  years'  old,  and  of  much 
moment,  since  it  turns  on  the  ownership  of  half  a 
league  of  marsh.  We  have  already  spent  thirteen 
lives  upon  it,  and  the  call  is  now  with  me." 

"  The  marsh  must  needs  be  of  high  value  to  have 
cost  so  large  a  price,"  said  Perego  gravely. 

"  Value  ?  God  knows !  There  are  ducks  in 
winter,"  and  di  Gadola  shrugged  his  shoulders 
indifferently.  "  But  value  or  not,  it  is  mine,  and 
what  I  have  I  hold ;  understand  that,  Messire 
Perego  ;  and  what  I  have  not  and  want,  that  I  shall 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.  87 

get ;  understand  that,  too.  That  brings  me  to 
Meluzza,  and  the  evil  done  me  by  Paolo  Besana. 
See,"  and  with  one  hand  he^gripped  Perego  by 
the  shoulder,  while  with  the  other  he  pointed  south- 
ward beating  the  air  with  his  clenched  fist,  "  see 
how  it  cuts  into  Foscotti !  But  for  it,  all  within 
sight  would  be  mine,  and,  by  the  Saints,  mine  it 
shall  be.  All  this  came  to  me  through  my  mother. 
My  father — God  rest  his  soul ! — possessed  nought 
but  the  wit  to  marry  her,  and  it  was  enough ! 
Twice  she  married.  First  a  Besana  who  owned 
what  I  own,  Meluzza  being  her  portion,  and  between 
them  it  was  agreed  that  the  survivor  should  take  all. 
Do  you  follow  me  ?  That,"  and  again  he  shook 
his  fist  to  the  south,  "  that  which  I  have  lost  was  my 
mother's  by  birthright." 

"  And  how "  began  Perego. 

"  Thus,"  said  the  other,  cutting  him  short,  and 
anticipating  the  question.  "  By  della  Besana  she 
left  a  son,  Paolo.  My  sire  came  next,  and  died 
before  her,  leaving  me.  Then  she  died  also,  and  I  do 
not  quarrel  with  her  that  she  gave  all  to  my  half- 
brother,  since  his  only  child,  a  daughter,  was  dead, 
and  he  at  bitter  odds  with  her  French  kinsfolk  by 
marriage.  Then  came  the  wrong  done  me.  There 
was  a  grandchild,  Messire,  a  miserable  puling  girl 
child,  and  with  the  repentance  of  death  upon  him — 
may  God  refuse  such  a  repentance !  the  time  for 
a  man's  good  works  is  in  his  strength  and  not  in  his 
weakness — what  does  he  do?  He  robs  me  of 
Meluzza,  the  very  kernel  and  heart  of  Casa  Foscotti, 


88  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

on  the  miserable  plea  that,  after  all,  the  girl  was  his 
own  flesh  and  blood  and  the  last  of  his  race,  and  so 
should  have  something!  Robbed  me!  robbed  me! 
but,"  and  the  foxy  face  grew  wolfish  and  the  grip 
on  Perego's  shoulder  tightened  like  a  vice,  "  there 
shall  be  restitution,  and  hourly  I  pray  God  the  day 
may  come  soon." 

"  And  who  is  this  girl  ?  " 

The  fox  that  had  become  a  wolf  became  a  devil 
of  malice  and  uncurbed  wrath. 

"  A  daughter  of  our  foes,  Messire  Perego.  Re- 
member that  when  the  time  comes.  She  is  called 
Denise  de  Lhoeac." 

III. 

Messire  Carlo  Perego  had  for  six  months  filled 
the  honourable  office  of  military  governor  of  Casa 
Foscotti  when  Denise  de  Lhoeac  reached  Meluzza. 
The  three  weeks'. journey,  for  all  its  discomfort  of 
bad  roads  and  worse  inns,  had  never  brought  her  a 
tedious  hour.  Even  the  inevitable  mishaps  which 
set  Roger  Patcham  cursing  himself  for  a  fool  in 
quitting  Lhoeac  were  but  a  new  delight,  and  how- 
soever the  miry  leagues  might  weary  the  flesh  the 
spirit  never  flagged  nor  found  them  dull. 

Nor,  even  after  a  month  of  Meluzza,  did  the  time 
hang  heavy.  The  alchemy  of  youth  turned  all  the 
hours  to  gold.  The  growing  heat  of  early  summer 
cut  half  the  day  out  of  life,  though  to  Denise  it 
was  still  a  very  sweet  and  very  living  world  that 
stretched  away  before  her  as  she  sat  through  the 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.  89 

nooning  in  the  shadows  of  the  great  porch,  staring 
dreamily  over  the  field  swimming  in  a  heat  that 
silenced  the  very  shrilling  of  the  crickets.  Of  her 
neighbours  she  knew  little.  Roger  Patcham  had 
no  love  for  new  acquaintances,  but  rather  a  fear,  and 
the  memories  of  Madame  Catherine  were  of  that 
bitter  sort  which  are  none  the  better  for  stirring  up. 
Therefore  the  bonds  of  Meluzza  sufficed  them,  and 
the  brave  gallants  Denise  had  so  gaily  pictured  as 
fighting  to  the  death  for  even  the  barren  privilege  of 
a  smile  were  as  absent  as  at  Lhoeac.  One  visitor, 
indeed  they  had,  and,  in  that  contradictoriness  that 
plagues  life  at  times,  him  they  would  gladly  have 
done  without. 

Early  one  forenoon  Luigi  di  Gadola  had  ridden  up 
at  a  gallop,  five  men  at  his  heels,  of  whom  Carlo 
Perego  was  not  one ;  had  swaggered  in  at  the  open 
door  with  never  so  much  as  a  "  By  your  leave,"  and 
announced  his  presence  by  beating  loudly  with  his 
heavy  whip  upon  a  small  table  standing  midway 
across  the  hall. 

"  Hola  !  Hola  !  Hola ! "  he  cried,  underscoring 
each  syllable  with  a  sounding  blow.  "  Who  serves 
within  here  ?  Hola  !  I  say  !  It  was  time  for  thee 
to  come,  friend.  By  the  Mass,  if  I  had  thee  but  four- 
and-twenty  hours  at  Casa  Foscotti  I  would  teach 
thy  sleepy  head  watchfulness.  Go  tell  thy  mistress 
that  her  kinsman  the  Sieur  de  Foscotti  hath  caught 
her  napping." 

44  Had  the  Sieur  de  Foscotti  come  with  fifty  in- 
stead of  five,"  said  Roger  Patcham,  who  had  entered 


90  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

the  hall  behind  di  Gadola,  "  he  had  met  with  another 
reception,  and  one  which  might  have  pleased  him 
even  less." 

Round  spun  di  Gadola,  and  his  fists  on  his  hips, 
stared  at  the  Englishman  up  and  down. 

"  And  who  art  thou  ?  "  said  he,  pushing  out  his  lip, 
"  though  by  the  Mass,  that  matters  nought ;  for 
understand  this,  whoever  thou  art,  that  Luigi  di 
Gadola  rides  to  Meluzza  with  thrice  fifty  if  he  has  a 
mind  to.  This  time  I  come  as  a  kinsman." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  the  Sieur  de  Foscotti," 
answered  Captain  Roger,  squaring  his  shoulders  in 
his  turn  ;  "  but  on  your  part  understand  this  :  no 
party  of  fifty  or  thrice  fifty  gets  within  bowshot  of 
Meluzza  without  leave  of  Denise  de  Lhoeac.  As  to 
who  I  am,  I  am  her  poor  friend  and  servant." 

"  Talk,  talk,  talk,"  cried  di  Gadolo.  "  Why,  let  me 
but  bring  twoscore " 

"  Find  them  first,"  broke  in  Patcham  ;  "  that  is  to 
say,  add  ten  to  the  thirty  at  Casa  Foscotti.  I  know 
my  business,  Messire  di  Gadola." 

He  is  a  wise  man  who  knows  when  he  is  beaten. 
In  a  wink  the  wolf  turned  fox. 

"  Confess,  Messire,  that  on  your  part  this  talk  of 
stopping  me  a  bowshot  off  was  no  more  than  talk." 

For  answer  Roger  Patcham  drew  back  the  curtain 
behind  him  and  pointed  through  the  doorway  it 
exposed. 

"  There  hang  twenty  steel  bonnets,"  said  he,  "  and 
on  my  honour  as  a  soldier  I  have  men's  heads 
within  the  walls  to  fill  them  every  one,  and  as  many 
more  who  are — elsewhere." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.  91 

"Aye,"  said  di  Gadola,  with  a  cunning  look  and 
laying  a  hand  on  the  other's  arm,  "  but  where  ?  " 

"  On  the  business  of  Mademoiselle  de  Lhoeac, 
Messire  di  Gadola.  But  let  the  rattle  of  sword  on 
sword  only  be  loud  enough  and — you  understand  ?  " 

"  Good,  good.  Safeguard  and  close  ward  is  a 
fine  motto,  and  nowhere  truer  than  in  Italy,  where 
quarrels — not  that  we  have  one,  I  come  as  a  kins- 
man— grow  and  grow  until — poof !  all's  ablaze  ! 
You  know  our  proverb?  Goutte  sur  goutte  faitle 
frontage.  That  is  Italy." 

But,  had  di  Gadola  only  known  it,  it  would  have 
been  a  rare  clatter  of  steel  that  had  made  itself 
heard  from  Meluzza  to  Lhoeac. 

"  And  this,"  he  went  on,  as  Denise,  accompanied 
by  Maman  Catherine,  entered  the  hall,  "  is  our  niece  ? 
And — what?  aye!  by  the  Mass;  our  dear  cousin! 
Chut,  chut ;  I,  too,  must  go  to  Guienne  and  grow 
young.  Though  for  the  matter  of  that  seven-and- 
forty  is  no  more  than  a  man's  age.  Cousin  Denise, 
let  there  be  no  more  talk  of  uncles ;  the  gap 
between  is  none  so  great.  I  kiss  your — hands,"  he 
added  hastily,  fitting  the  act  to  the  altered  intention 
as  Denise  drew  back. 

Thenceforward  for  a  long  hour  he  held  them  in 
close  talk,  making,  at  times,  the  women's  ears  burn 
with  the  blunt  frankness  of  his  tales  of  camp  life, 
until  at  last  Roger  Patcham  as  a  hint  took  pity  on 
the  five  left  to  broil  in  the  scorching  glare  of  the 
sun,  whilst  the  patron  drank  his  wine  at  his  ease  in 
the  cool  hall. 


92  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  di  Gadola  carelessly,  "let  them 
bide.  Thou  and  I,  Messire,  have  endured  worse  a 
hundred  times.  And  yet  the  beasts  are  good  beasts 
and,  aye,  with  your  permission,  cousin,  they  will 
unsaddle  under  that  great  chestnut  yonder." 

So  for  another  hour  he  sat  and  drank  and  talked, 
fawning  more  and  more  upon  Denise  until  with 
every  sentence  there  was  a  touch  upon  her  arm,  a 
playing  with  the  loose  folds  of  her  hanging  sleeves, 
a  smoothing  of  her  skirt,  while  she,  drawn  back  to 
her  furthest  inch  against  the  wall,  sat  and  shook  after 
a  fashion  strange  to  the  mistress  of  Lhoeac. 

At  last  he  rose,  his  eyes  glazed  and  his  face  flushed 
with  wine,  and  so  staggering  in  his  gait  that  for  very 
courtesy  Roger  Patcham  could  do  no  less  than  take 
him  by  the  arm.  And  a  fortunate  thing  it  was  he 
did  so,  since  but  for  the  restraint  Luigi  di  Gadola 
would  have  made  his  adieus  in  a  strange  blend  of 
privileges,  uncle,  cousin,  brother,  and  the  Lord 
knows  what,  all  garnered  into  one. 

But  drunk  as  he  was  he  could  put  his  thought  into 
words. 

"  I  have  it,"  he  hiccupped,  leering  up  into  the 
Englishman's  face  as  he  lurched  blinking  into  the 
sunlight ;  "  the  thing  has  puzzled  me  these  two  hours 
back — ever  since  I  saw  that  plaguey  line  of  steel 
bonnets.  To  beat  a  stone  wall  even  with  a  mailed 
fist  is  folly  ;  therefore  I  shall  marry  her.  Give  me 
thy  good  offices,  Master  Patcham — Saints  !  what  a 
mouthful  of  a  name !  'tis  like  so  much  soft  cheese — 
thou  shalt  see  that  Luigi  di  Gadola  can  be  grateful. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.  93 

Casa  Foscotti  was  bound  to  have  a  mistress  sooner 
or  later,  and  my  cousin  may  as  well  have  me  as 
another.  Eh  ?  Is  it  a  bargain  ?" 

"  The  Lord  forbid  that  I  should  meddle  with 
Madame  Cavallazzi's  affairs,"  answered  Patcham, 
«  but " 

"  Madame  Cavallazzi !  To  Mahound  with  Madame 
Cavallazzi.  'Tis  Denise  de  Lhoeac  I  mean." 

"  Mademoiselle  ?"  and  Captain  Patcham  wrenched 
himself  loose  from  the  hold  the  other  had  taken  of 
his  arm,  sending  him  staggering  back  as  he  did  so 
until  he  sprawled  against  the  angle  of  the  porch  for 
support.  "  Is  this  a  drunken  jest,  Monsieur  di 
Gadola?  " 

"  Drunken  !  "  cried  the  Sieur,  his  face  flushing 
yet  deeper ;  "  if  thou  callest  this  drunken  thou 
knowest  little  of  Luigi  di  Gadola !  'Tis  sober 
earnest,  and  as  such  thou  hadst  best  take  it,  lest — 
but  the  time  for  threats  is  not  yet." 

"But!"  answered  the  Englishman,  gnawing  his 
lip  in  perplexity.  "  You  are  her  uncle,  Messire.  The 
laws  of  the  church " 

"The  church!"  scoffed  di  Gadola;  "have  no 
fear  of  the  church  !  "  and  he  laughed  derisively. 
"  We  of  Italy  know  Alexander  the  Sixth  better 
than  that !  A  dispensation  is  value  so  many  hard 
crowns,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  As  to  the  uncle- 
ship,  what  was  good  enough  for  kings  before  now 
may  well  serve  the  turn  of  a  Sieur  de  Foscotti ! 
But  be  not  hasty  in  broaching  it  to  her,  Messire 
Patcham.  I  will  sleep  on  the  project  and  see  if  it  be 


94  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

the  smoothest  way  out  of  the  rut,  and  will  tell  thee 
later." 

But  waking  or  sleeping,  drunk  or  sober,  the  idea 
took  such  fast  hold  of  his  mind  that  for  seven  days 
he  haunted  Meluzza  with  the  faithfulness  and  wel- 
come of  a  spirit  damned,  until  Denise  was  ready 
to  weep  for  vexation  that  she  had  ever  quitted  the 
quiet  of  Lhoeac.  In  the  end  she  had  a  watch  set, 
and  so  soon  as  the  Sieur  di  Gadola  appeared  within 
eyeshot,  which  he  did  twice  or  thrice  a  day,  she 
slipped  out  into  the  fields  and  made  her  way  to  a 
certain  arbour  on  the  face  of  the  slope  that  lay  to 
the  south  of  Meluzza.  Even  this,  being  as  he 
supposed  a  pretended  coyness,  was  but  a  fresh  whet 
to  di  Gadola's  ardour,  and  his  wrath  was  great  when, 
on  the  eighth  day  of  the  siege,  Roger  Patcham 
bluntly  told  him  the  truth. 

"  Let  this  folly  have  an  end,  Messire.  The  maid 
is  at  her  wits'  end  with  terror,  and  'tis  the  first  time 
in  fourteen  years  that  I  have  known  .her  quake. 
She  hides  from  you  like  chicken  from  hawk,  like 
rabbit  from  weasel.  The  Lord  knows  we  want  no 
quarrel,  but,  to  be  plain,  if  it  is  a  choice  between  this 
harassment  and  the  ill-will  of  the  Sieur  de  Foscotti 
we  men  will  risk  the  blows  rather  than  that  she 
should  fret  another  hour." 

For  a  moment  di  Gadola  failed  to  understand, 
and  sat  fingering  the  wine-cup  with  which  according 
to  his  custom  he  had  solaced  his  disappointment, 
staring  up  into  Roger  Patcham's  face  the  while. 

"  Harassments?     Terror?"     he   said    at    length. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.  95 

"Strange  language  that  from  such  as  you  to  such 
as  I.  Master  Squire.     Be  plain,  be  plain." 

"  Lord,  lord,  was  I  not  plain  !  Have  it,  then.  We 
like  neither  you  nor  your  ways,  your  person,  your 
manners,  nor  your  talk ;  and  whether  as  kinsman 
or  lover — thou  her  lover !  God  save  the  mark ! — 
Mademoiselle  de  Lhoeac  bids  me  say " 

But  what  Mademoiselle  had  bid  him  say  remained 
untold.  With  the  snarl  of  an  enraged  dog,  di  Gadola 
sprang  at  the  other's  throat,  clawing  and  tearing  at 
him  with  his  nails,  more  like  a  shrewish  hag  than  a 
man.  So  unlooked-for  was  the  onset,  and  so  power- 
ful  the  spring,  that  Roger  Patcham  reeled  back  under 
it  for  all  his  sinewy  strength,  and  it  needed  no  small 
force  to  push  from  him  his  panting  enemy.  Still 
staggering,  di  Gadola's  hand  slipped  down  to  his 
right  hip,  and  had  not  the  noise  of  the  scuffle  brought 
in  three  or  four  of  Lhoeac's  men  the  Englishman 
would  have  had  steel  between  his  ribs.  The  Sieur 
de  Foscotti  was  no  man  to  boggle  over  a  foul  blow 
when  it  would  serve  his  end.  But  the  sight  of  the 
guard  sobered  him.  Leaving  behind  him  nothing 
worse  than  a  curse  and  a  shake  of  his  clenched  fist, 
he  turned  on  his  heel;  and  presently  Roger  Patcham 
could  hear  the  quick  thud  of  his  horse-hoofs  on  the 
hard  sod. 

"  Let  there  be  a  double  watch  henceforth,"  he 
said,  turning  to  the  growing  crowd  of  curious  faces ; 
"double  both  in  men  and  wakefulness.  My  word 
for  it,  he  who  sleeps  at  his  post  is  like  to  sleep 
till  the  crack  of  doom  and  all  Meluzza  with  him. 


96  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

Plague  take  the  ways  of  wenches !  Why  could  she 
not  have  fooled  him  a  little  and  then  said  '  no' 
prettily  ?  But  that's  a  woman  all  over.  Cursed 
with  downrightness,  when  she  should  be  so  politic 
and  yet,  when  it  pleases  her,  able  to  coax  and 
wheedle  and  go  to  work  sideways  like  a  cat  after 
cream." 

Thenceforward  Luigi  di  Gadola  came  no  more  to 
Meluzza.  But  though  Roger  Patcham's  fears  were 
groundless  and  the  days  passed  without  so  much  as 
the  blink  of  his  beast's  cheek-chains  showing  in  the 
sun,  Denise  still  fled  daily  to  her  arbour,  and  thus, 
in  an  unexpected  fashion,  widened  her  knowledge 
of  her  kinsfolk. 

It  was  a  fortnight  or  thereabouts  after  the  rupture 
with  Casa  Foscotti,  and  Father  Roger's  precautions, 
though  not  relinquished,  were  less  keenly  set  on 
edge.  A  guard  no  longer  kept  Denise  in  sight 
whithersoever  she  went,  though  at  first  it  had 
tramped  within  flutter  of  her  skirts,  so  that  the 
sight  of  a  single  wayfarer  crossing  the  fields  afoot 
gave  her  no  alarm.  Indeed,  now  that  the  issue 
betwixt  Lhoeac  and  Casa  Foscotti  was  knit,  the 
young  chatelaine's  courage  had  come  back. 

Nor  was  there  anything  in  the  man  or  his  greeting 
to  set  her  fears  fluttering.  Almost  a  generation 
older  than  Luigi  di  Gadola,  his  grave,  smooth-shaven 
face,  broad  in  the  brow,  full  in  the  cheek,  firm  in  the 
mouth,  square  in  the  chin,  was  set  in  a  half-circle 
of  silvered  hair  that  fell  almost  to  the  shoulders. 
Broad  and  strong  in  build,  he  carried  himself  in  an 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.          97 

arrogant  fashion  that  agreed  but  little  with  the 
severe  and  modest  greyncss  of  his  dress,  which,  from 
velvet  cap  to  buckled  and  beribboned  shoes,  was 
colourless  in  its  sobriety.  A  sword,  shorter  and 
more  slender  than  the  vogue,  was  looped  to  his 
leather  belt,  and  the  poniard  on  his  right  hip  was 
pushed  back  almost  out  of  sight,  as  if  its  wearer 
would  say,  "  I  am  not  one  who  has  need  of  thee." 
On  his  breast,  hung  by  a  purple  cord  round  his 
neck,  was  a  small  crucifix  of  dull  bronze. 

"  Thanks  be  to  Saint  Agnes,  who  has  answered 
my  prayers,"  said  he,  stretching  out  both  hands  as 
he  came  abreast  of  Denise.  "  Nay,  surely  Lhoeac 
need  have  no  fear  of  Lhoeac ;  and  thou  and  I, 
pretty  one,  are  the  last  of  our  ancient  race."  Then, 
as  Denise  still  shrank  back,  his  face  darkened,  and 
he  cried  with  a  quick  show  of  passion,  "  What  ? 
Has  Master  Patcham's  misguided  and  unworthy 
zeal  so  outrun  truth  and  discretion  that  thou  art 
afraid  of  thy  uncle  Henri?  Sad  changes,  my 
niece,  since  I  held  thee  in  these  arms  nineteen  years 
ago,  and  watched  thy  mother — thou  a  sleeping  babe 
— slip  quietly  to  rest.  That  thou  hadst  two  uncles 
to  guard  thee  was  her  great  comfort ;  though,  in- 
deed, sweet  soul,  she  was  full  of  comfort  in  her- 
self." 

It  would  have  puzzled  my  Lord  Bishop  to  have 
told  what  he  meant  by  these  last  words.  But  they 
rounded  off  his  sentence,  and  he  knew  Denise  was 
in  no  mood  to  be  a  stickler  for  verbal  niceties. 
Besides,  nine  times  out  of  ten  what  tickles  the  ear 


98  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

pleases  both  spirit  and  mind,  and  words  are  hypo- 
crites that  easily  assume  the  disguise  of  truth. 

"  You  ? "  she  answered,  still  shrinking  back ; 
"  you,  my  Lord  Bishop  of  Saint-Seurin  ?  " 

"  Nay,  nay,  nay,  that  is  for  the  world  at  large  ; 
with  thee  I  am  neither  priest  nor  bishop :  nought 
but  kinsman." 

"  But  Father  Roger  said  you  were  at  Bordeaux. 
How  then " 

"  I  am  where  it  is  needful  I  should  be  to  watch 
over  thee,  my  child,"  and  Henri  di  Lhoeac's  white 
teeth  showed  in  a  smile:  "  Lhoeac  or  Meluzza, 
France  or  Italy;  'tis  all  one  ;  and  never  didst  thou 
need  safe  guardianship  as  thou  dost  to-day,  or,  to  be 
precise,  as  thou  wilt  to-morrow. 

"  I  have  Messire  Patcham,"  and  Denise  straight- 
ened her  lips  even  as  old  Guy  de  Lhoeac  might 
have  done.  "  We  are  not  easily  afraid  at  Meluzza." 

"  Poor  maid  !  poor  maid  !  How  can  an  honest 
dog  like  Master  Patcham  hope  to  match  the  wits  of 
such  a  fox  as  Luigi  di  Gadola  ?  I  know  him  of  old 
and  how  he  hungers  for  this  Naboth's  vineyard 
of  thine ;  therefore  am  I  at  Casa  Foscotti  for  the 
good  of  my  health,  his  very  close  friend  and  thy 
protector.  Now  mark  this,  my  child  :  go  to  thy 
booth  to-day  if  thou  wilt.  Dream,  and  be  happy, 
as  a  child  should — and  in  the  ways  of  this  evil  world 
what  art  thou  more  than  a  simple  babe? — dream 
and  play  thyself  to-day,  but  for  thy  life's  sake,  aye, 
and  for  more  than  thy  life,  go  not  there  to-morrow. 
Tell  all  that  to  Master  Roger;  the  hint  may  set  his 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.  99 

honest,  but  somewhat  heavy,  wit  a-working.  And 
now,  my  child,  I  must  return  by  the  circuit  by 
which  I  came,  for  it  would  go  ill  with  thee  and  with 
me  if  Luigi  di  Gadola  guessed  that  I  but  played  a 
part  with  him." 

Bending  forward,  he  kissed  Denise  on  the  fore- 
head and  gravely  marked  her  with  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  but  as  he  turned  away  she  caught  him  by 
the  arm. 

"  And  are  you  too  in  danger,  and  for  me  !  My 
lord,  my  lord,  all  these  years  I  never  dreamed  that 
you  loved  me." 

"  Chut,  chut  ! "  and  he  patted  her  hand  gently. 
"  No  more  of  that.  Are  we  not  Lhoeac  and 
Lhoeac  ?  " 

But  when  Roger  Patcham  heard  of  it  he  only 
said  with  a  grudging  admiration — 

"  Plague  take  his  priestcraft  !  The  malice  of 
Luigi  di  Gadola  is  too  soon  for  him  by  a  full  year. 
There  are  sixteen  thousand  crowns  to  be  won  or 
lost.  And  the  winning  of  them  is  much  for  the 
good  of  his  health  !  " 

Yet,  for  all  his  cynicism,  he  was  too  astute  to 
despise  the  warning,  and  that  night  he  held  close 
counsel  with  Denise's  ma  tnit  Maman — counsel 
from  which  she  went  away  weeping,  and  with  a 
sorrow  on  her  face  to  which  it  had  been  a  stranger 
for  full  nine  years. 


ioo  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

IV. 

The  cool  and  grateful  freshness  of  the  night  had 
not  been  fully  dried  out  of  the  next  morning  when 
Luigi  di  Gadola  sent  for  his  military  governor. 
His  justice-room  was  what  he  loved  to  call  that 
square  south  chamber  on  the  ground  floor,  nor  in 
doing  so  was  he  even  dimly  conscious  of  the  cynical 
perversion  of  the  truth.  Little  of  justice  and  much 
of  the  law  of  the  strong  arm  and  the  hard  heart  had 
been  dealt  out  there,  and  many  had  been  the  vil- 
lainies planned  across  the  wine-stained  table  that 
filled  the  centre  of  the  floor. 

A  bachelor's  room  it  was  from  corner  to  corner. 
Here  was  a  trophy  of  arms,  rust-eaten  and  neg- 
lected ;  the  blades  dim,  damp-worn  and  hung  away, 
broken  spider  threads  floating  from  their  points. 
There  a  buffet  of  strong  waters  and  wines  of  many 
growths,  its  polished  boards  a  puddle  of  spilt  dregs 
from  an  overturned  beaker  that  lay  tilted,  bottom 
uppermost,  on  the  wreck  of  a  glass  goblet.  In  the 
corners  the  litter  of  a  week's  occupancy — crusts  of 
bread,  torn  fragments  of  papers,  flagon  stoppers — 
all  swept  carelessly  aside ;  the  hangings  in  tags  and 
tatters,  the  curtains  to  the  sides  of  the  lowest 
windows  frayed  and  unlooped,  and  on  the  wall  a 
picture  or  two,  which  for  vile  frankness  would  have 
stained  the  Grand  Turk. 

In  their  six  months'  intercourse  Messire  Carlo 
Perego  had  learned  to  know  the  moods  of  his 
worthy  patron,  and  therefore  at  first  sight  of  Luigi 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.          101 

di  Gadola's  face  he  braced  himself  as  he  had  done 
of  old  when  he  looked  above  his  own  sword's  point 
at  three  naked  blades  and  knew  there  was  a  blind 
wall  barring  his  retreat  five  paces  behind  him. 
That  snarling  smile  catching  up  one  corner  of  the 
evil  mouth,  that  shifty  restlessness  in  the  half-closed 
eyes  that  after  the  first  quick  upward  glance  roamed 
everywhere  but  into  the  face  of  the  man  he  spoke 
to,  that  gnawing  of  the  thumb-nail,  that  incessant 
beat  of  the  foot,  boded  ill  for  somebody,  and  at  the 
risk  of  Messire  Carlo  Perego  !  The  monkey  was 
eager  for  a  fresh  batch  of  chestnuts,  and  the  cat 
must  risk  its  paws  in  the  clawing  of  them  from  the 
fire! 

"  There  is  a  service,  my  friend,  that  I  must  seek 
from  thee  and  to-day,"  began  di  Gadola  softly, 
drumming  his  finger-tips  on  the  table  as  he  spoke; 
"a  service,  but  not  of  danger.  One  rather  that 
proves  how  high  a  store  I  set  upon  thy  wit.  Tis  a 
thing  that  most  men  do  but  once  and  then  do  for 
themselves,  but  with  me  there  are  reasons  which — 
which — prevent,  as  thou  wilt  see.  'Tis  a  subtle 

thing  I  seek  done,  subtle  and  strange ;  for " 

and  he  broke  off  with  a  forced  laugh,  "  it  is  nothing 
less  than  the  winning  of  a  maid.  I  am  about  to 
marry,  Messire  Perego." 

"  A  maid  !  "  cried  Perego,  aghast — "  a  maid,  and  I 
to  win  her?  What  moonstruck  madness  is  this, 
Messire  ?  " 

"  Sober  truth,"  and  Luigi  di  Gadola  shrugged  his 
shoulders  with  affected  carelessness.  "  Sooner  or 


102  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

later  a  man  such  as  I  am  must  play  the  fool  and 
bring  home  a  wife.  These,  of  course,  must  come 
from  the  walls,  and  for  a  time  we  shall  change  our 
ways,  but  not  for  long.  No,  by  the  Mass,  a  man 
cannot  shed  his  habits  as  a  snake  his  skin,  unless, 
indeed,  he  outgrows  them — a  rare  thing  after  two- 
score.  For  a  month  or  two  we  must  play  the 
anchorite,  and  then,  my  friend,  hey  for  the  old  days 
and  the  old  ways  again !  After  all,  women  love  a 
wild  rake.  The  greater  pride  theirs,  d'ye  see,  that 
they  have  tamed  him." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  answered  Perego,  "  but  what  has  all 
this  to  do  with  me  ?  " 

"  Why  this  " — and  the  patron's  manner  grew  more 
assured ;  the  ice  was  broken,  and  all  that  remained 
was  for  the  other  to  take  the  plunge  with  the  best 
grace  he  could — "  the  girl,  being  young,  is  wild 
and  foolish.  Shy,  too,  or  cunning,  by  the  Mass ! 
It  is  hard  to  tell  which,  for  she  plays  Will-o'-the- 
wisp  and  dances  for  ever  just  out  of  reach.  A 
pretty  game  enough  for  a  man  to  join  in  when  his 
blood  is  hot,  but  one  that  hardly  matches  the 
dignity  of  the  Sieur  de  Foscotti.  'Twill  be  your 
part,  my  friend,  to  bring  the  play  to  an  end,  and  so 
earn  both  our  thanks." 

"  My  part  ?  Little  as  I  know  of  women's  ways — 
a  man  should  have  his  pocket  well  lined  before  he 
thinks  twice  of  them — this  much  I  am  sure,  a  man 
had  best  do  his  own  wooing,  or  not  do  it  at  all, 
which  at  times  is  better  than  the  best.  Where  does 
my  part  come  in  ?" 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.         103 

"Did  I  say  woo?  Win,  man,  win;  not  woo. 
I  myself  can  see  to  that  later.  As  to  thy  part,  it  is 
to  take  Sandro  and  Flemish  Hans  with  you  and 
bring  her  here." 

"  What  ?     Whether  she  will  or  no  ?  " 

"  Chut !  A  hand  across  the  mouth,  an  arm 
round  the  waist,  a  heave  to  thy  saddle-peak,  and 
thou  hast  enough  of  her  will  for  thy  purpose. 
Besides,  there  is  no  need  to  go  to  Meluzza,  and  if 
the  thing  miscarries  Mademoiselle  de  Lhoeac  knows 
neither  one  nor  other  of  you.  I  took  care  of 
that!" 

"  Mademoiselle  de  Lhoeac  I  Then  it  is  flat 
abduction.  I  will  have  nought  to  do  with  it, 
Messire  di  Gadola." 

"  Mademoiselle  de  Lhoeac  it  is,  and  whether  flat 
abduction  or  no  thou  shalt  have  to  do  with  it,  thou 
and  no  other.  What,  man  !  have  I  paid  thee  forty 
crowns  a  month  these  eight  months  for  dear  love  of 
thee?  A  pretty  fool  I  should  be!  Forty  crowns  a 
month,  when  I  could  hire  a  hundred  as  needy 
rufflers  as  Carlo  Perego  for  as  much  a  year  !  " 

"  Hire  them,  then,  and  let  them  do  your  rogues' 
work.  I  wash  my  hands  of  it  and  Casa  Foscotti." 

"  By  the  Mass,  that  thou  dost  not !  Why,  'tis 
but  four  days  since  thou  drewest  pay,  and  now  thou 
wilt  wash  thy  hands  of  Casa  Foscotti  and  call  it 
quits!  Am  I  a  fool,  Master  Perego?  Bluntly, 
man,  thy  word  is  pledged  ;  the  pay  has  passed  and 
I  hold  thee  to  thy  bargain." 

"  But  my  honour " 


104  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  But  thy  word  !  Is  there  no  honour  in  thy 
word!  Can  broken  honour  patch  up  honour? 
Was  thy  word  pledged  or  no,  Messire  Perego  ? 
Remember  the  Silver  Pigeon  and  answer  me  that." 

"Aye,  but  I  should  have  a  free  hand." 

"  Except  in  what  touched  myself.  What  ?  Is 
that  not  so  ?  Was  I  not  honest  with  thee,  scrupu- 
lously frank  and  honest  ?  Besides,  what  harm  can 
take  the  girl  ?  Is  not  her  most  reverend  uncle  here 
at  Casa  Foscotti  ?  " 

"  But,"  objected  Perego  slowly,  for  he  felt  the 
net  closing  round  him  and  knew  not  how  to  escape, 
"  I  have  never  so  much  as  seen  Mademoiselle  de 
Lhoeac." 

"  Nay,"  and  Luigi  di  Gadola  chuckled  gleefully  ; 
"  I  took  care  of  that !  Should  she  slip  thy  fingers, 
dead  or  alive,  none  can  ever  say,  '  Casa  Foscotti ' ! 
Yet  that  thou  dost  not  know  her  makes  no  odds. 
She  is  a  tall  rush  of  a  girl,  pale  and  frightened,  and 
thou  wilt  find  her  within  an  hour  in  the  booth  on 
the  slope  beyond  Meluzza.  Let  there  be  no  parley- 
ings,  Messire  Perego,  for  once  a  woman  gets  talking 
a  man  may  look  to  himself.  Do  as  I  said  at  the 
first — slip  a  hand  across  the  mouth  and  an  arm 
round  the  waist,  and  the  thing  is  done.  After  that, 
if " 

He  paused  in  his  voluble  talk,  and,  looking  aslant 
at  the  other,  stood  tapping  his  teeth  with  his  finger- 
nails irresolutely. 

"If?" 

"  If  thy  dagger  was  loose  in  its  sheath  it  would  be 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.         105 

no  great  harm.  No,  stay  ;  that  would  be  too  plain 
a  tale,  and  so  raise  a  hue  and  cry.  Let  me  think, 
let  me  think.  If  she  slipped  off  thy  beast's  haunches 
crossing  the  ford — aye,  that  is  better ;  there  is  a 
broad  pool  but  twenty  paces " 

"  Man,  man,"  broke  out  Perego,  "  is  it  plain 
murder  you  hint  at  ?  " 

"  Murder  !  "  echoed  the  Sieur.  "  Chut,  chut !  who 
talks  of  murder  ?  Hast  thou  never  seen  a  man 
drown?  'Tis  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world. 
There  are  five  hundred  crowns 

"  To  the  devil  with  you  and  your  five  hundred 
crowns.  You  have  netted  me  in  your  web,  Messire 
di  Gadola,  bought  me  body  and  soul.  But  under- 
stand this :  when  I  have  kept  my  pledge  and 
handed  Mademoiselle  de  Lhoeac  to  the  safe  keeping 
of  my  Lord  Bishop  of  Saint-Seurin,  I  am  done 
with  Casa  Foscotti,  and  will  go " 

"  Back  to  the  kennel  I  plucked  thee  from  !  Go 
and  welcome,  dog.  but  do  my  bidding  first.  As  to 
my  Lord  Bishop,  why,  I  shall  have  a  word  to  say  to 
Hans  the  Fleming  about  that.  Begone  about  my 
business,  Messire  Perego,  and  lag  not  by  the  way. 
Thou  hast  two  hours  in  which  to  earn  thy  month's 
wages ! " 

Dog,  Luigi  di  Gadola  had  called  him,  and  currish 
enough  Carlo  Perego  felt  himself  as  he  crossed  from 
the  shelter  of  the  hillside,  and  rode  towards  the 
slope  whereon  was  the  arbour  of  Mcluzza.  A 
dozen  times  in  his  half-hour's  ride  he  had  it  in  his 
mind  to  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  leave  the  Sieur 


io6  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

de  Foscotti  to  do  his  own  evil  work,  but  two  things 
restrained  him.  One,  the  power  of  his  pledged 
word  ;  he  had  known  that  his  patron  was  no  better 
than  scum  of  the  camp,  and  so  sold  himself  with 
his  eyes  open.  Now  that  the  thing  had  come  to 
pass  which  in  his  heart  he  had  known  from  the  first 
must  needs  come  sooner  or  later,  and  for  the  doing 
of  which  he  had  taken  pay,  could  he  with  any  con- 
science shirk  doing  his  part  ? 

But  his  second  reason  was  even  stronger,  and 
doublefold.  Let  him  have  what  qualms  he  might, 
Flemish  Hans  and  Sandro  the  Pisan,  who  rode  so 
closely  behind  him,  would  have  none.  Better  in 
every  way  that  Denise  de  Lhoeac  should  fall  into  his 
hands  than  into  theirs.  So  with  a  bitter  heart  and  a 
troubled,  scheming  brain,  he  let  his  beast  pick  his 
way  along  the  bridle-path  that  wound  across  the 
face  of  the  slope,  comforting  himself  with  the  hope 
that,  after  all,  it  might  be  a  barren  quest. 

Scant  and  short-lived  comfort  it  was,  for  within 
the  booth  there  was  the  flutter  of  a  white  dress,  and 
just  such  a  woman  as  di  Gadolahad  described  stood 
in  the  furthest  corner — tall  and  slender,  pale  of  face, 
and  frightened  enough  in  all  conscience. 

The  sight  of  her  terror  and  weak  helplessness 
smote  him  like  a  whip-stroke,  and  but  for  the  two 
who  for  the  moment  held  their  place  discreetly  out 
of  view,  he  would  have  swung  himself  back  into  the 
saddle  and  taken  himself  and  his  shame  elsewhere. 
As  it  was  he  slowly  hitched  his  beast's  reins  round 
one  of  the  latticed  bars  of  the  booth,  and  called 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.         107 

roughly  to  his  two  followers  to  dismount  but  bide 
where  they  were. 

"  Your  uncle,  Mademoiselle,"  he  began,  bowing 
with  a  stiff  ceremony  very  unlike  the  accustomed 
gaiety  of  Carlo  Perego,  "  has  sent  me  to " 

"My  uncle,  Monsieur?" 

"  Aye,  my  Lord  Bishop  of  Saint-Seurin." 

"  Ah  !  "  and  a  light  flashed  into  the  girl's  eyes  ; 
"  true,  I  had  forgotten  that  he  also  is  at  Casa  Fos- 
cotti.  Yes,  Monsieur,  what  of  him  ?" 

"  He — stand  back  there,  fellows,  as  I  bade  you. 
What  !  must  I  speak  twice  ?  Stand  back,  I  say — 
further,  further !  " 

"What,  Monsieur?    You  have  men  there!  " 

"  No  more  than  two,  Mademoiselle,  and  I  pledge 
my  word  you  need  have  no  fear  of  them." 

"Why  should  I,  Monsieur?  Or  of  you  either. 
Are  you  not  my  uncle's  friend  ?  You  were  saying 
that  Monseigneur  de  Saint-Seurin " 

Carlo  Perego  bit  his  lip  in  silence.  Minute  by 
minute  his  self-contempt  grew  keener,  and  in  his 
memory  he  cursed  the  two  cut-throat  louts  that  they 
had  not  held  their  ground  when  they  pushed  for- 
ward and  thus  given  him  cause  to  turn  upon  them, 
and  slash  a  way  back  to  honour  out  of  the  toils  that 
held  him.  But  they  had  gone  to  heel  like  dogs, 
and  so  left  him  no  excuse.  Needs  must  that  he  go 
through  with  the  evil  business,  but  how  to  play  the 
ruffian  with  that  pale  face  and  sweet,  pathetic  fear- 
fulness  plagued  him  sorely.  Best  be  blunt. 

"  I  find  it  hard  to  lie,  Mademoiselle  de  Lhoeac," 


io8  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

he  began,  speaking  bareheaded,  and  with  his  feath* 
ered  cap  held  to  his  breast. 

There  he  stopped.  Bluntness  was  not  so  easy 
while  troubled  eyes  were  turned  full  upon  him. 

"That  I  am  sure,"  she  answered  as  he  paused; 
"  I  do  not  think,  Monsieur,  that  you  have  a  face 
that  lies.  You  are  sent  to  take  me  to  Casa  Fos- 
cotti,  and  what  you  do,  you  do  under  compulsion ; 
is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"To  my  shame  it  is." 

"  Then  let  us  go,  Monsieur;  only,  I  pray  you,  let 
not  one  of  those  you  have  outside  there  touch  me. 
I  should  be  shamed  for  ever." 

"  I  would  to  the  Lord  they  would  but  try,"  an- 
swered Carlo  Perego  between  his  shut  teeth.  "  I 
say  again,  have  no  fear  for  them." 

Loosening  his  reins,  he  mounted  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"Your  foot  in  the  stirrup  there,  Mademoiselle." 

"  What,  Monsieur !  Am  I  to  ride  en  croupe  f 
Man  Dieu  !  I  shall  tumble  off." 

"  Nay,  have  no  fear.  Hold  my  belt,  Made- 
moiselle. Further  forward  on  the  right ;  aye,  so. 
Now  on  the  left,  still  forward,  still  forward.  There, 
that  is  safe.  Do  your  hands  touch,  Mademoiselle  ?  " 

And  a  small  voice  from  behind  said,  "Yes, 
Monsieur." 

"  Now,  men,  forward  !  Return  as  we  came,  but 
do  you  lead.  Halt,  halt,  halt !  Not  so  fast  over 
this  rough  ground.  Are  you  at  ease,  Mademoi- 
selle ?  " 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.         109 

"  Not  at  heart,  Monsieur." 

Carlo  Perego  groaned.  In  the  frank  readiness 
with  which  she  had  aided  him  he  had  half-forgotten 
what  lay  before  her  at  Casa  Foscotti.  His  plan  had 
been  to  give  di  Gadola  the  go-by,  and  invoke  for  the 
girl  the  protection  of  Henri  de  Lhoeac ;  but  now 
the  conviction  came  sharply  home  to  him  that  his 
patron  was  no  man  to  respect  Henri  de  Lhoeac 
whether  as  guest  or  priest-bishop.  Truly,  she  had 
good  cause  to  be  troubled  at  heart,  better  cause 
than  she  knew,  and  as  he  felt  her  grip  tighter  at  the 
swaying  of  his  beast,  and  the  stir  of  her  breath 
upon  his  hair,  his  self-abasement  was  abysmal. 

"  Monsieur,"  whispered  a  voice  in  his  ear.  They 
were  following  the  trend  of  the  hill  eastward,  a 
hundred  yards  or  so  from  the  crest  of  the  ridge,  and 
the  walls  and  turrets  of  Meluzza  showed  clearly  at 
times  through  the  gap  of  the  wood.  "  Monsieur." 

"Mademoiselle?" 

"As  God  shall  be  your  judge,  answer  me  truly. 
Can  Monseigneur  de  Saint-Seurin  save  me  ?  I  am 
but  a  girl — not  a  brave  man  like  you  ;  and  so — and 
so  " — there  was  a  catch  in  the  breath — "  and  so  it 
takes  a  little  courage  to  face  death." 

"  Death  !  "  he  echoed,  checking  his  beast  with  a 
jerk  ;  "  not  that,  my  God,  not  that !  He  spoke  of 
marriage." 

"  Marriage  with  Luigi  di  Gadola  !  Tis  one  and 
the  same.  It  is  Meluzza  he  wants,  not  Denise  de 
Lhoeac,  and  so,  marriage  or  no  marriage,  it  is  death. 
What  of  Monseigneur  de  Saint-Seurin  ?  Ah  !  I 


no  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

understand,  Monsieur,  I  understand  ;  your  silence 
is  enough.  May  God  show  you  mercy  in  that  you 
have  not  cheated  me  with  lies.  Your  face  told  me 
you  were  true  at  heart,  though  your  errand  gives  it 
the  lie." 

Again  there  came  the  catch  in  the  breath,  and  as 
he  felt  the  quiet  spasm  of  her  sobs,  no  outcry  but  a 
silent  weeping  born  out  of  the  weakness  of  nature 
whether  she  would  or  no,  Carlo  Perego  groaned 
afresh  and  cursed  himself  softly. 

"  An  hour  ago  I  thought  I  could  brave  it  out," 
she  said  presently  as  her  sobs  quieted,  "  but  with 
the  life  so  full,  and  the  world  so  good,  it  is — it 

is "  and  again  her  breath  went  from  her  with  a 

gasp. 

"  My  God,  my  God !  "  cried  Perego  between  his 
shut  teeth,  "  have  you  no  curse  for  me,  Mademoi- 
selle ?  " 

"Why  should  I  have?"  answered  she  simply. 
"  If  this  must  needs  come,  then  rather  you  than 
another.  From  my  heart  I  thank  you  for  your 
gentle  courtesy.  But  see,  Monsieur,  your  friends 
are  impatient.  We  lag  behind  and  go  too  slowly 
for  them." 

Perego's  horse  had  fallen  to  a  walk,  and  from  time 
to  time  the  Fleming  and  the  fellow-rogue  halted 
and  looked  back,  as  if  in  wrath  at  the  delay.  They 
were  beyond  Meluzza  now,  and  were  turning  down 
the  hill  to  cross  the  river  to  the  valley  lands  of  Casa 
Foscotti.  Once  there  it  was  level  ground  and  a 
short  trot  home. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.         in 

"  Friends  !  "  he  echoed,  waving  his  hand  to  them 
to  ride  on.  "  That  scum  ?  Yet  you  are  right, 
Mademoiselle.  To  you  we  are  but  birds  of  a  feather. 
Cursed  be  the  hour  that  ever  I  passed  my  word 
to  Luigi  di  Gadola  !  " 

"  A  pledge  to  do  evil  ?  That  is  to  set  man's  law 
above  God's,  Monsieur;  and  yet,"  she  went  on  after 
a  pause,  "  I  am  but  a  girl,  and  a  man  must  do  that 
which  his  honour  and  conscience  bid  him." 

"  Aye  !  "  and  Carlo  Perego  smote  his  clenched 
fist  on  his  saddle-peak,  "  and  God  helping  me  so  I 
will.  My  faith  is  yours,  Mademoiselle,  and  before 
the  Sieur  de  Foscotti,  or  one  of  his  scoundrels,  lays 
finger  on  you  he  must  slay  Carlo  Perego." 

"  No,  no,  never  that,"  she  cried,  her  grip  tighten- 
ing pleasantly  ;  "  promise  me,  Monsieur,  promise  me, 
never  that." 

"  This  time  the  oath  holds,"  answered  he,  with, 
for  the  first  time  that  day,  something  of  the  old 
gay  ring  in  his  voice.  Now  that  there  was  trouble 
in  the  wind  his  spirits  rose.  "  Hold  tight,  Mademoi- 
selle— tighter,  tighter ;  we  must  fool  these  rogues 
lest  they  take  me  at  a  disadvantage.  Thank  God, 
I  am  quit  of  di  Gadola,  and  there  is  a  man's  work 
to  be  done  at  last !  " 

Down  the  hill  they  jolted,  Carlo  Perego  holding 
his  beast  with  a  tight  rein  as  it  slid  and  stumbled 
down  the  smooth,  sun-dried  sod  towards  the  river's 
bank,  win-re  Foscotti's  men  had  halted  and  were 
awaiting  him. 

"Go  on,"  he  shouted  ;  "the  ford  is  over-narrow 


112  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

for  four,  and  there  is  no  need  to  splash  Mademoi- 
selle." 

For  a  moment  they  hesitated,  speaking  rapidly 
one  to  the  other ;  then  as  Carlo  Perego  slowed  down 
his  pace,  the  Fleming  turned  into  the  water  and  the 
other  followed  him. 

"  So  !  "  muttered  Perego,  watching  them  keenly. 
"  More  than  I  know  the  strategic  value  of  a  river 
bank !  You  have  saved  my  life,  Mademoiselle. 
Luigi  di  Gadola  never  meant  that  I  should  reach 
Casa  Foscotti  alive.  He  knows  the  truth  of  the 
proverb,  '  Dead  men  make  no  war.'  " 

By  this  time  the  two  men-at-arms  had  climbed  the 
further  bank  and  turned  their  beasts  to  face  the  ford, 
and  in  such  a  fashion  that  they  dominated  the 
further  exit.  Once  opposite  them,  and  with  no 
more  than  the  breadth  of  the  river  between,  Carlo 
Perego  reined  up. 

"  Loose  me,  Mademoiselle, "  he  cried  softly. 
"  Quick,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  lest  they  fall  upon 
us  before  I  am  ready  !  So,  now  grip  the  saddle 
with  both  hands  and  hold  fast." 

Springing  to  the  ground,  he  turned  his  horse's 
head  towards  the  steepest  slope  of  the  bank,  where 
the  current  had  dug  out  the  soft  soil,  leaving  the  top 
an  overhanging  mass  of  matted  fibres,  where  neither 
man  nor  beast  could  get  sure  foothold.  Then  he 
dealt  it  a  sounding  blow  on  the  neck  with  his  open 
hand,  driving  it  forward  with  a  start  that  nearly 
flung  the  girl  to  the  ground. 

"  Not  Caesar  Borgia  himself  could  have  devised  a 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.         113 

neater  defence,  and  Caesar  himself  is  no  mean 
captain !  Let  aught  bigger  than  a  cat  try  that 
path,  and  my  word  for  it  the  crumbling  sod  will 
souse  him  over  his  ears.  Now,  you  rascals,  woman- 
slayers  and  liars  in  wait,  if  you  want  your  blood- 
money,  earn  it  like  men  !  " 

Drawing  his  sword,  he  set  himself  squarely  in  the 
narrow,  worn  path  that  led  to  the  ford,  where,  if 
Gadola's  men  tried  to  rush  him,  he  would  have  the 
advantage  of  the  rising  ground,  and  waited. 

Not  for  long.  They  had  all  of  a  brute's  courage, 
both  Fleming  and  Pisan,  and  after  a  brief  pause  of 
astonishment  at  the  new  turn  of  affairs  they  plunged 
again  into  the  river,  making  ready  for  the  attack  as 
they  rode.  The  odds  were  still  with  them,  though 
they  had  lost  the  advantage  both  of  surprise  and 
position,  for  Carlo  Perego  had  read  their  purpose 
aright.  It  was  no  part  of  the  Sieur's  plan  that 
cither  he  or  the  girl  should  gain  the  ear  of  my 
Lord  Bishop.  If  Denise  de  Lhoeac  were  found  at 
the  bottom  of  a  pool  unwounded,  and  Carlo  Perego 
not  far  off  with  a  sword-thrust  through  his  ribs,  who 
would  connect  the  two,  or  link  the  quiet  of  either 
with  the  master  of  Casa  Foscotti  ? 

Yet  the  sight  the  rogues  saw  as  they  crossed  the 
stream  was  not  one  to  put  heart  into  them.  Made* 
moiselle's  low  cry,  more  wail  than  words,  "  Oh. 
Monsieur,  Monsieur!"  had  but  made  him  set  his 
teeth  the  harder,  and  confirmed  his  purpose  to  an 
exulting  desperation,  for  it  seemed  to  Messire  Carlo 
Percgo  that  its  sharpness  had  soincihing  more  in  it 


114  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

than  a  girl's  unreasoning  terror.  She  was  Denise  de 
Lhoeac,  and  he — well,  he  was  what  he  was,  a  dis- 
credited soldier  of  fortune,  and  therefore  leagues 
removed  from  her.  Therefore  the  best  thing  that 
could  happen  would  be  that  he  should  save  her, 
and  perish  in  the  saving.  The  dying— that  counted 
for  little  ;  the  saving— that  was  all. 

So  the  face  the  two  saw  above  the  steady  sword's 
point  was  hard-set,  resolute,  almost  joyous,  and  calm 
with  the  tranquil  determination  of  a  spirit  that 
knows  the  worst  the  world  holds,  and  has  no  dread 
of  it — although  an  ugly  face  for  men  on  such  an 
errand  as  theirs. 

No  duel  this  of  nice  skill  and  long-drawn  careful- 
ness of  thrust  and  parry  !  Once  clear  of  the  water, 
they  both  rammed  home  their  spurs,  and  so  drove 
at  him  headlong.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  shifted 
his  point.  To  the  girl  who,  open-eyed  and  open- 
mouthed,  leaned  back  with  one  hand  on  the  horse's 
flank  the  other  mechanically  clutching  the  saddle,  it 
seemed  as  if  summer  lightning  had  flashed  in  her 
eyes  so  quick  was  the  sweep  of  the  blade  meeting 
the  attack.  Not  at  the  men.  This  was  no  time 
for  courtesy,  no,  nor  for  pity  to  the  brute  beasts, 
who  were  the  lesser  brutes  of  the  four.  Across 
the  muzzle  of  the  one  and  the  ears  of  the  other 
swept  the  stroke  in  the  one  curve,  so  that  they 
reared,  whinnying,  and  swerved  backward,  one 
stumbling  and  flinging  Sandro  the  Pisan  upon  the 
smooth,  dry  stones  of  the  river's  margin.  Then 
back  came  the  blade  to  its  steady  poise,  across 
which  the  alert,  hard  eyes  looked  out  unwinkingly. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  KINSFOLK.         115 

Not  twice  was  Hans  the  Fleming  to  be  caught 
napping.  His  rasping  spurs  drove  on  his  unwilling 
beast,  and  this  time  the  stroke  was  parried,  nor, 
thereafter,  had  Carlo  Perego  leisure  for  aught  but  the 
blade  that  in  its  deadly  quickness  seemed  in  three 
places  at  once.  As  for  the  girl,  for  all  her  watch- 
fulness  she  never  knew  how  they  fought  or  fared. 
It  was  no  more  than  a  bewilderment  of  shooting 
light  flung  in  the  eyes  as  the  sun  caught  one  or 
other  twisting  blade,  or  ringing  clash  and  clatter, 
of  faces  wherein  the  lurking  devil  leaped  to  the 
eyes  and  looked  out  o*  window,  of  hard-drawn 
breath  and  busy,  shifting  feet,  and  now  and  then 
a  rough  oath  to  underscore  the  hate ;  all  so  new, 
all  so  undreamed  of  in  her  innocence  that  she  but 
gasped  and  stared,  past  thought,  past  sense,  past 
even  prayer,  and  understanding  nothing  as  to  which 
had  the  advantage. 

Then,  as  she  watched,  gaping,  of  a  sudden  came 
the  end.  Up  went  Flemish  Hans'  left  arm  into  the 
air  as  he  reeled  back  in  his  saddle,  foaming  redly  at 
the  mouth.  There  he  swayed  for  an  instant, 
groaning  with  a  rattle  in  his  throat  that  was  half  a 
laugh.  Then  he  flung  himself  forward  on  his 
enemy's  unrecovered  sword,  dealing  Carlo  Perego 
such  a  thrust  that  the  two  fell  together  in  a  heap 
upon  the  bank,  and  rolled  down  on  to  the  dry 
waterway. 

Nor  was  she  even  clear  as  to  what  followed.  As 
she  sat  staring,  her  dry  lips  moving  dumbly,  she 
saw  the  Pisan  rise  upon  his  knees  and  left  hand  and 


ii6  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

look  round  him  confusedly.  He  still  held  his 
sword-hilt,  but  the  blade  had  been  snapped  off 
short  in  his  fall.  For  a  moment  he  knelt,  dazed 
and  blinking,  his  evil  face  an  ugly  mask  of  pain  ; 
then  his  sight  cleared,  and  as  he  saw  Carlo  Perego 
stretched  upon  his  back  ten  feet  away,  and  Hans 
the  Fleming  by  him,  stone  dead,  he  laughed  aloud. 

"  The  sure  man  is  the  safe  man,"  she  heard  him 
mutter  as  he  shuffled  forward  on  his  knees  through 
the  stones,  casting  aside  the  hilt  as  he  went,  and 
groping  for  the  dagger  at  his  hip. 

Down  to  the  dry  sod  she  slid  with  no  certain 
purpose  in  her  mind,  but  as  she  moved  the  glint  of 
the  Fleming's  sword  struck  up  from  the  grass  where 
it  had  fallen  as  he  tumbled.  Swiftly,  and  yet  half 
as  in  a  dream,  she  caught  it  up,  and  as  the  Pisan 
reared  himself  to  give  his  blow  the  fuller  weight, 
she  leaped  downward,  flinging  herself  upon  him 
with  the  blade  at  the  charge. 

Afterwards  Roger  Patcham,  who  found  all  four 
huddled  there  under  the  bank,  said  that  it  was  as 
shrewd  a  stroke  as  it  had  been  his  luck  to  see,  and 
honest  Roger  was  no  mean  judge.  But  whenever 
Caterina  recalled  that  day  she  shivered  as  with  an 
ague,  and  her  face  went  whiter  than  the  milk-white 
gown  she  had  worn. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE. 
I. 

OF  the  four  he  found  upon  the  water-worn 
stones,  there  were  two  at  least  with  whom  Roger 
Patcham  had  no  need  to  cumber  himself.  Hans 
the  Fleming  and  Sandro  the  Pisan  had  taken  their 
wages  in  full  and  left  Luigi  di  Gadola's  treasury 
none  the  poorer  for  the  payment.  Carlo  Perego  in 
the  one  case,  and  Caterina  in  the  other,  had  dis- 
charged the  debt  after  a  fashion  that  never  leaves 
the  quittance  in  dispute,  so  true  is  the  proverb  that 
"  Dead  men  make  no  war."  As  for  Carlo  Perego, 
Roger  Patcham  would  have  left  him  where  he  lay, 
that  he  might  follow  the  other  two  at  his  leisure, 
but  for  the  girl's  outcry. 

At  the  first  dash  of  water  in  her  face  she  had  sat 
up,  dazed  and  staring,  and  then  gone  promptly  off 
into  a  second  swoon  at  the  sight  of  Messire  Carlo, 
who,  indeed,  was  no  pretty  object  for  a  damsel  to 
look  at,  with  the  blood-smears  and  grit  of  the  river- 
bed trailed  across  his  face.  Brought  to  life  again, 
she  had  added  to  Captain  Patcham's  perplexed 
wonderment  at  women's  ways  by  going  down  on 
her  knees  and  taking  the  ugly  head  upon  her  lap 
with  an  utter  disregard  for  the  whiteness  of  her 
robe. 


ii8  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  Let  the  fellow  bide,"  said  he  roughly.  "  'Tis  a 
plain  enough  reading  of  the  old  adage  :  rogues  have 
fallen  out  and  honest  folk  have  come  by  their  own." 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  "  asked  she,  looking  up  fearfully 
into  Patcham's  stern  face  and  heeding  his  words 
not  at  all.  "  Really,  really  dead  ?  " 

"  Dead  or  living,  what  boots  it  to  us?  'Tis  but  a 
rogue  more  or  less.  Let  him  bide." 

"  Let  him  bide  ?  "  she  cried,  shrilly,  "  let  him  bide 
who  gave  his  life  for  me  ?  Shame,  Captain 
Patcham,  shame  !  "  Then  her  hysteric  wrath  quav- 
ered into  tears.  "Is  he  dead,  Monsieur?  For  the 
Lord's  sake  tell  me  the  truth." 

Whereat,  grumbling  and  still  much  perplexed, 
Roger  Patcham  went  down  on  his  knees  in  his  turn 
and  found  Carlo  Perego  living,  but  in  an  evil  case. 

"  If  he  bides  he  dies,"  said  he,  shaking  his  head 
and  looking  from  the  stricken  man  to  the  girl ; 
"and  being  one  of  Casa  Foscotti's  men,  why,  it 
were  no  great  harm " 

"  If  he  bides  I  bide  too,"  answered  she,  setting 
her  mouth  after  a  fashion  he  had  never  before  seen 
in  Caterina  Cavallazzi ;  "  and,  oh  !  Monsieur,  Mon- 
sieur, indeed  and  indeed  it  was  for  me  he  fought, 
and  if  he  dies  it  will  be  for  me — for  me."  Out 
across  the  smeared  face,  with  its  staring,  unseeing 
eyes,  she  leaned  and  caught  Roger  Patcham  by  the 
arm.  "  For  the  Lord's  sake  be  merciful  and  save 
him.  Oh  !  I  think  you  men  have  hearts  like  stones. 
Had  your  mother  no  pity  in  her  that  you  are  so 
cruel  hard  ?  " 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         119 

"  Let  my  mother  be,  Mademoiselle  Catherine," 
he  answered  gruffly.  "  Here,  two  of  you,  leave  off 
staring  and  hoist  him  up  in  front  of  Pierre.  Gently, 
fools — this  is  no  charcoal  sack  you  are  handling. 
So ;  now  his  head  in  the  hollow  of  your  arm. 
Good,  you  have  the  trick  of  it,  and  when  the  time 
comes  will  nurse  a  babe  bravely !  Forward,  but  not 
over-fast :  the  world  to  come  is  no  more  than  a 
jolt's  length  from  him.  Mademoiselle,  behind  me. 
There,  there,  let  thanks  be  :  mayhap  I  was  a  trifle 
rough.  You  still  will  talk  ?  By  Saint  George  !  one 
would  think  it  was  your  lover  that — aye,  I  thought 
that  would  stop  your  clacking.  You  women  push 
a  man  too  hard  at  times.  Faith  !  I  can  feel  the 
blush  through  the  broad  of  my  back  !  " 

But  Roger  Patcham  was  not  done  with  women's 
tongues  for  that  day.  Madame  Catherine  and  he 
were  scarcely  settled  in  the  former's  day-room,  with 
its  pleasant  outlook  down  the  sun-steeped  length  of 
the  valley,  when  Denise  broke  in  upon  them,  her 
eyes  ablaze  with  wrath  in  the  true  Lhoeac  fashion. 
Whatever  of  gentle  sweetness  she  might  have  drawn 
from  her  Italian  mother,  much  of  the  long  line  of 
French  Seigneurs  had  also  gone  to  her  making,  and 
at  sight  of  her  Roger  whistled  and  set  himself  to 
meekness  as  he  would  have  done  in  the  long-past 
years  with  old  Guy,  her  grandsire. 

"  What  wicked  trick  is  this  you  have  played  upon 
me,  you  two  ?  Nay,  rather  you,  Captain  Patcham  ; 
for  the  sending  that  lamb  to  the  slaughter  was  no 
mother's  doing  but  like  a  man's  cold  cunning.  Am 


120  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

I  a  weakling  babe  to  be  thus  petted  and  kept  in  the 
dark  while  another  risks  her  life  for  my  sake  ? — I 
who  a  year  hence  will  have  all  Lhoeac  at  my  back 
for  the  mere  raising  of  a  finger?  I  will  brook  no 
such  conspiracies  against  my  honour,  Messire." 

"  You  have  that  now,  Mademoiselle,"  began  Roger 
ignoring  with  much  discretion  the  matter  at  issue. 
"  I  believe  from  my  soul  there  is  not  a  scamp  of 
them  all  but  would  follow " 

"  Ta,  ta,  ta  !  "  she  broke  in,  with  a  stamp  of  her 
foot.  "  Let  Lhoeac  be,  Captain  Patcham.  The 
question  is,  why  I  am  fooled  and  hoodwinked, 
cozened  like  a  child  with  sugar-plums,  while  Caterina 
— ah  !  ma  mie  Maman  !  Now  I  understand  thy  red 
eyes,  these  many  weepings  when  thou  thoughtest 
no  one  saw  thee,  and  why  for  four-and-twenty  hours 
thou  who  art  so  gentle  have  been  doubly  gentle  ; 
and  here  am  I  scolding  and  berating  thy  love  like 
the  graceless  vixen  I  am.  But,  Father  Roger,  tell 
me  this  :  by  what  right " 

"  The  right  of  the  least  danger,"  answered  Roger 
Patcham  gravely.  "  The  girl  had  but  to  say  I  am 
not  Denise  de  Lhoeac,  and " 

"  And  that  villain  would  have  killed  her  without 
mercy  to  heal  his  vexation  and  keep  her  tongue 
quiet.  And  had  he  not,  what  manner  of  man  is 
that  vicious  sot,  my  half-uncle,  that  thou  shouldst 
trust  him  with  our  Caterina  ?  I  know.  Oh  yes,  I 
know.  It  was  for  love  of  me  thou  didst  it ;  but  yet, 
had  it  gone  ill  with  Caterina " 

"  But  it  has   not   gone  ill.     Let   the   past   rest, 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         121 

Mademoiselle."  Roger  Patcham,  being  uneasy  in 
his  conscience,  was  growing  restless. 

"  Not  gone  ill  ?  That  is  what  a  man  says,  and  all 
because  her  life  is  whole  in  her ;  as  if  life  was  all ! 
Were  you  a  woman  and  saw  her  white  face  you 
would  not  say  that.  And  yet,"  and  Denise  broke 
into  a  laugh,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  a  new  thought, 
"  and  yet  it  may  be  that  you  are  right.  A  week 
hence  I  will  tell  you,  and  then,  to  punish  you  both, 
will  claim  a  whim  from  you  whether  you  will  or  no." 

"  As  to  whims,"  said  Roger  ruefully,  "  I  think 
that  in  the  granting  of  whims  we  mostly  have  no 
choice." 

"  Then  I  shall  have  two ! "  cried  she,  still  laugh- 
ing, "  the  one  to  make  the  other  good  !  And  take 
this  to  your  heart,  I  will  have  no  '  nay  '  to  either  of 
them,  Father  Roger.  No,  not  though  your  face 
grow  as  long  as  your  sword-hilt  at  the  bare  thought 
of  them.  But  what,"  she  continued,  harking  back 
to  her  first  thought,  "  was  the  sense  in  flinging 
Caterina  at  Monsieur  de  Gadola's  head  ?  " 

•'  To  force  his  hand  and  let  him  know  that  there- 
after Meluzza  was  on  the  watch." 

"Aye,  but  why  have  risked  her?  Why  not  have 
let  him  found  the  arbour  empty,  and  Meluzza  been 
on  the  watch  all  the  while  ?  " 

"  Because  needs  must  that  there  be  a  rupture,  and 
a  rupture  beyond  patching,  lest  he  play  the  friend 
and  fool  us  under  our  noses.  Oh !  it  was  not  for 
nought  we  baited  the  trap.  Thank  the  Lord  his 
Messire  Perego  played  the  true  man  at  the  last." 


122  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  And  a  true  man  I  take  him  to  be,"  returned 
Denise,  nodding  her  head  with  the  mature  wisdom 
of  nineteen  and  all  its  sere  knowledge  of  the  world. 
"  Remember  'tis  your  own  word,  Father  Roger,  a 
true  man,  and  give  my  whim  the  week  to  ripen  ;" 
and  she  left  the  room  with  the  laughter  still  playing 
round  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"  A  heart  of  gold,"  said  Roger  Patcham,  looking 
after  her,  "  a  heart  of  gold,  and  as  wilful  as  a  witch 
withal.  I  wonder,  now,  what  new  whimsie  she  has 
tucked  away  in  her  brain.  Something  mad,  I'll 
wager,  and  yet  with  a  salting  of  wit  to  season  it." 

Roger  Patcham  had  no  need  to  nurse  his  curiosity 
for  the  full  week.  There  were  still  two  days  of  the 
time  to  run  when  Denise  came  to  him  as  he  was 
going  his  rounds.  He  was  in  the  men's  day-room 
handling  one  by  one,  as  was  his  wont,  the  pikes 
that  stood  in  sockets  along  the  wall,  their  heads 
swung  in  leather  loops  nailed  to  the  wooden  cornice. 
This  he  did  at  uncertain  intervals,  and  woe  to  him 
whose  weapon  showed  lack  of  care.  In  Captain 
Patcham's  eyes  peace  was  no  excuse  to  the  sloven. 
It  was  a  place  to  which  Denise  went  but  seldom, 
and  as  she  entered  the  loud  buzz  of  gossip  ceased, 
cards,  dice,  and  what  not  were  pushed  aside,  and  all 
rose  to  their  feet  in  silence. 

A  mixed  crew  they  were,  and  a  strange  babble  of 
many  jargons  they  made  when  their  tongues  were 
in  full  swing — French,  Flemings,  Walloons,  English, 
Swiss,  Italians  ;  many  races,  but  all  picked  men  who 
had  eaten  Lhoeac's  bread  for  years,  and  who,  every 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         123 

soul  of  them,  would  have  tramped  down  the  valley 
of  the  shadow  with  no  more  than  a  second  thought 
rather  than  that  the  beginnings  of  its  chill  should 
fall  upon  their  young  mistress. 

"  Come  out  into  the  sunshine,  Father  Roger," 
said  Denise,  with  a  nod  and  a  smile  round  the 
room.  "  What  ?  Thou  art  on  duty  ?  Why,  so  am 
I,  and  mine  takes  precedence.  Fie !  to  say  no  to  a 
woman  !  Thou  saidst  nothing!  What  have  I  eyes 
for  if  not  to  read  looks?  Come,  man  ami,  that 
whim  of  mine  is  ripe,  and  thou  must  aid  in  its 
harvesting." 

Linking  her  arm  in  his,  she  drew  him,  half-pleased, 
half-reluctant,  out  upon  the  terrace  to  the  shady 
side  of  the  Chateau,  and  there,  still  leaning  upon 
him,  she  marched  him  twice  up  and  down  in  silence. 

"Art  thou  going  to  be  good  to  me,  Father 
Roger?  "  she  said  at  last,  pressing  his  elbow  to  her 
side,  and  looking  up  at  him  playfully.  "Yes,  I 
know  thou  art.  Thy  moustache  hath  an  upward 
curl !  Didst  thou  know  that  was  a  sign  of  benevo- 
lence ?  When  it  turns  down,  so,  we  poor  women 
go  softly  and  pray  for  quietness." 

"  I  know  you  are  a  wilful  maid,  Mademoiselle, 
and  that  I  am  an  old  fool  when  you  so  choose,  but 
I  do  not  know  what  lies  behind  all  this  talk." 

"  It  is  such  a  good  thing,  this  thought  of  mine, 
Father  Roger ;  and  yet  a  girl's  thoughts  and  a  man's 
are  not  alike,  and  of  course  it  is  always  we  who  arc 
astray.  When  a  man  and  a  maid  differ  it  is  never 
the  maid  who  has  wisdom — or  so  the  man  thinks. 
How  many  crowns  a  year  is  Meluzza  worth  ?  " 


124  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  Less  than  it  costs,"  answered  Roger  grimly,  for 
the  up-keep  of  this  Italian  windfall,  this  far-off  fief 
of  Lhoeac,  was  a  sore  point  with  him.  "  How  can 
we  at  Lhoeac  have  eyes  here  to  watch  the  out- 
goings?" 

"  Yes,  but  how  much  comes  in  ?  Never  heed 
what  goes  out." 

"  A  woman  all  the  world  over !  '  Never  heed 
what  goes  out.'  But  we  must  heed  the  outgoings, 
else  if  the  leak  at  the  spigot  washes  more  than 
comes  in  at  the  bung  the  cask  will  run  dry.  '  Never 
heed  the  outgoings,'  quoth  she.  A  woman's  way, 
that ;  a  woman's  way  that !  " 

"  If  it  were  not  that  I  have  a  point  to  gain  I 
would  tell  thee,  Father  Roger,  that  to  give  no 
straight  answer  is  like  a  man  all  the  world  over," 
cried  Denise,  with  a  stamp  of  her  foot.  "  Drop  a 
man's  way  and  answer  me.  For  the  third  time, 
how  much  comes  in  ?  " 

"  Seven  hundred  crowns,  maybe  ;  maybe  eight. 
It  should  be  twice,  aye,  even  thrice  as  much,  but 
who  is  there  to  check  waste  and  the  master  a 
hundred  and  fifty  leagues  away  ?  " 

"  So  !  As  much  as  that  ?  Then  Caterina  can 
grow  fat  at  her  leisure." 

"Caterina?" 

"  Caterina,  Father  Roger,  Caterina.  Is  it  a  man's 
way  to  be  deaf  ?  That  she  should  have  Meluzza  is 
my  whim." 

"  And  did  I  not  say  it  would  be  some  mad 
thought?"  and  Roger  Patcham  laughed  aloud. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         125 

"What,  Madame  leave  you  after  all  these  years? 
Not  for  ten  Meluzzas.  Tis  plain  you  know  her  but 
little,  Mademoiselle." 

"  Madame  ?  Who  said  aught  of  Madame  ?  I 
said  Caterina.  Madame  will  bide  at  Lhoeac  with 
me." 

"  Caterina  here  alone  ?  Poor  lamb !  Luigi  di 
Gadola,  who  has  once  so  nearly  made  a  meal  of  her, 
would  gobble  both  her  and  Meluzza  in  a  mouthful, 
once  our  backs  were  turned." 

"  Not  alone,"  answered  Denise,  with  a  twinkle  in 
her  eyes,  "  but  with  Messire  Carlo  Perego  as  shep- 
herd ;  and  my  word  for  it,  not  six  wolves  like 
Luigi  di  Gadola  will  harm  either  the  lamb  or  the 
fold,  if  I  know  Messire  Carlo  as  I  think  I  do." 

"  Carlo  Perego !  "  cried  Captain  Patcham.  "  Carlo 
Perego !  What  hath  he  to  do  with  Caterina?  " 

"  Father  Roger,  thou  art,  I  doubt  not,  very  wise 
in  the  ways  of  men,  and  especially  when  at  odds 
with  them  ;  thou  canst  plot,  thou  canst  baffle,  thou 
canst  fight,  thou  canst  trounce  ;  but  in  our  ways 
thou  art  an  owl,  a  mole,  a  bat.  Why,  for  five  days 
the  wench  hath  had  no  life  but  the  little  left  in 
Messire  Carlo  Perego  ;  and  as  for  him,  I  think  his 
one  sorrow  is  that  he  did  not  die  for  her  out  and 
out.  Presently  he,  being  a  man,  will  change,  and 
his  one  sorrow  will  be  his  one  joy,  since  to  live  for 
a  woman  is  better  than  to  die  for  her,  even  though 
there  be  less  of  nobility  in  it.  Now,  Father  Roger, 
what  dost  thou  think  of  my  whim  ?  " 

"  If "  he  began. 


126  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

But  with  a  laugh  Denise  cut  him  short. 

"  Merci  !  Monsieur,"  said  she,  dropping  his  arm. 
"  If  your  difficulty  be  a  doubt,  that  settles  it,  since 
there  is  no  room  for  so  much  as  the  ghost  of  an 
if;  "  and  with  a  mock  curtsey  she  ran  singing  into 
the  house. 

"  Heart  of  gold,"  said  Roger,  watching  her  as 
she  went.  "  Did  I  not  say  there  would  be  some 
wisdom  in  her  madness  ?  A  sure  friend  and  a  safe 
retreat  this  side  of  the  mountains  is  no  bad  thing, 
lest  my  Lord  Bishop  climb  so  high  that  he  over- 
shadow Lhoeac  and  so  chill  us  all  in  the  north. 
God  grant  her  second  whim  be  as  wise  a  one." 

But  when,  later,  he  questioned  her,  his  heart 
sank  at  the  reply. 

"  It  is,"  said  she,  meeting  his  gaze  with  eyes  as 
grave  as  his  own,  "  that  when  next  my  uncle  Henri 
says  '  come  '  I  shall  be  a  loving  and  obedient  niece, 
and  so  please  both  him  and  myself.  If  there  is  a 
truer  philosophy  of  life,  I  have  yet  to  learn  it." 

"  Then  may  he  never  say  it,"  answered  Patcham  ; 
"  and  if  that  be  philosophy,  then  it  is  not  the  first 
philosophy  that  has  had  but  little  wisdom.  As  I 
told  you  before,  so  again  now,  the  air  of  Bordeaux 
is  unwholesome  for  Lhoeac." 

Whereat  Denise  laughed. 

"  He,  at  least,"  said  she,  "  has  thriven  on  it ;  why 
not  I  ?  " 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         127 

II. 

Fourteen  months  in  which  the  evil  thereof  is 
sufficient  for  the  day  are  ample  to  make  a  man 
forget  his  fears  for  the  time  to  come.  Such  a  four- 
teen months  it  was  which  followed  on  the  return  to 
Lhoeac.  Never  before  in  Roger  Patcham's  time 
had  so  much  of  trouble  fallen  upon  the  Seigneurie, 
so  much  of  anxiety  beset  its  management.  Drought 
and  flood  sowed  the  seeds  of  blight,  and  the  harvest 
was  disease  and  famine.  Ergot  spread  in  the  corn, 
mildew  burnt  and  shrivelled  the  vines,  so  that  the 
ears  of  the  one  were  black  and  blasted  and  the  fruit 
of  the  other  ruined  ;  tempest  swept  the  thin  fields, 
twisting  and  laying  the  weakened  straw ;  and  upon 
all  these  again  came  floods,  rotting  the  poor  produce 
that  remained. 

Well  was  it  then  for  Lhoeac  that  a  thrifty  hand 
had  laid  by  in  store  against  the  evil  day.  Had  the 
old  order  lingered  on  as  it  lingered  at  La  Crete  or 
Terre-Seche,  the  order  of  a  stern  and  callous 
gathering  on  the  one  hand,  and  a  reckless,  arrogant 
scattering  on  the  other,  the  order  of  the  upper  and 
the  nether  millstone,  Lhoeac's  vassals  must  have 
starved  as  theirs  starved.  But  the  years  of  peace 
and  carefulness  had  brought  their  accumulations 
whether  of  money  or  of  money's  worth  to  the  vaults 
and  granaries  of  the  Chateau,  and  with  all  his  love 
for  Denisc  de  Lhoeac,  Roger  Patcham  was  no  man 
to  sec  her  peasants  die  by  their  empty  hearths  that 
she  might  one  day  fill  her  lap  with  wealth.  As  well 
fill  it  with  the  blood  of  men. 


128  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

Therefore  through  the  desperate  hardness  of  the 
flooded  spring,  when  every  low-lying  field,  whether 
vineyard,  corn,  or  pasture,  was  no  better  than  a 
morass;  when  the  brimming  rivers  overlapped  their 
banks  and  set  the  very  villages  a-wash  ;  on  through 
the  sudden  scorching  heat  of  early  summer,  when 
the  tardy  growth,  already  stunted  and  starved  with 
cold,  crisped  and  withered  in  the  hot  glare  or  grew 
into  a  premature  and  meagre  ripeness  ;  and  with 
that  most  terrible  time  of  all  when  the  little  of  hope 
that  remained  perished  in  disease,  blight,  and  the 
outpouring  of  the  vials  of  the  skies,  Roger  Patcham 
drew  with  a  careful  but  no  niggard  hand  on  what 
was  to  have  been  the  wealth  of  Lhoeac's  mistress. 
For  months  he  fed,  doled,  nursed,  and  then  the 
crisis  passed.  The  Seigneurie  had  its  life  whole 
within  it,  but  the  Chateau  was  swept  bare  both  in 
coffer  and  storehouse. 

"  A  cheap  purchase,"  said  Roger  Patcham,  looking 
with  a  clear  eye  to  the  future;  "a  very  cheap 
purchase.  If  but  the  love  of  the  people  be  bought 
as  well  as  their  lives,  Mademoiselle  Denise  can  fill 
her  barns  at  her  leisure  and  none  will  grumble.  At 
last  I  think  we  have  peace,"  and  even  as  he  said  it 
the  messenger  of  my  Lord  Bishop  of  Saint-Seurin 
was  knocking  at  the  great  gate.  He  bore  two  letters, 
one  to  his  well-beloved  niece,  suave  and  tender — 
nay,  almost  more  than  paternally  warm  ;  the  other 
to  Master  Roger  Patcham,  curtly  courteous  as 
become  his  great  station  and  the  other's  obscurity, 
but  pithy  and  to  the  point.  My  Lord  Bishop  was 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         129 

no  man  to  lavish  words  when  there  was  nought  to 
gain  thereby,  or  indeed  to  lavish  anything  on  such 
terms.  With  him  a  groat  that  failed  to  earn  a  crown 
was  at  poor  usury.  Of  the  two,  the  latter  first,  and 
it  was  none  the  less  like  Henri  de  Lhoeac  that  in  its 
tone  of  familiar  condescension  it  savoured  more  of 
Louis  the  Twelfth  than  of  a  provincial  bishop. 

"  To  MASTER  ROGER  PATCHAM  :  Greeting. 

"  We  have  heard,  even  in  Bordeaux,  how  nobly 
thou  hast  played  the  Seigneur  this  year  past.  Truly 
we  and  Lhoeac  are  in  thy  debt  even  beyond  the 
sixteen  thousand  crowns  which  now  come  to  me 
out  of  the  loving  thought  of  my  dear  lord  and 
brother.  Alas  !  that  the  property  of  the  church,  and 
the  crying  needs  of  the  poor,  compel  us  to  require 
that  our  brother's  bounty  be  now  forthcoming. 
"  Thy  friend, 

"  HENRI  DE  LIBOURNE  ET  DE  SAINT-SEURIN. 

"If  thou  wouldst  cut  the  chain  in  half,  see  that 
Mademoiselle,  my  niece,  says  yes  to  the  thing  I  seek. 
Have  no  fear  for  her  well-being." 

At  the  first  spelling  over — Henri  de  Lhoeac  wrote 
no  clerkly  hand,  and  for  this  letter  he  was  his  own 
secretary — Roger  Patcham  took  in  little  more  than 
the  words,  but  as  the  sense  came  home  to  him  at 
the  second  reading  he  sat  back  in  his  chair  with  a 
troubled  face. 

"  Sixteen  thousand  crowns  !     Aye,  that  was  true, 


130  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

and  yet  in  his  absorbed  thought  for  Lhoeac  it  had 
been  clean  forgotten.  Sixteen  thousand  crowns  J 
Where  was  he  to  find  sixteen  thousand  crowns  for 
my  Lord  Bishop  or  my  Lord  Bishop's  poor? 
though  the  two,  no  doubt,  were  one.  Not  from  the 
Seigneurie.  When  life  and  bone  are  alone  left  it  is 
a  fool's  hunt  to  look  for  flesh  and  blood.  Not  from 
Lhoeac.  Its  coffers  had  little  in  them  but  dust  and 
the  echo  of  vanished  wealth.  A  half  he  might  raise 
by  pinching  and  scraping ;  a  bare  half,  but  no  more 
— no,  not  by  a  denier.  Where,  then,  get  the  rest  ? 
Not  from  the  Jews.  That  was  to  give  Lhoeac  up  to 
be  sucked  dry  year  by  year,  and  the  bare  husk 
filched  at  the  last.  He  had  played  the  Seigneur 
nobly,  had  he  ?  Honey  with  a  sting  left  in  it  ! 
That  was  my  Lord  Bishop's  biting  sarcasm.  Better 
he  had  played  it  with  a  closer  fist,  and  as  the  old 
lords  would  have  played  it,  for  now  Lhoeac  was  like 
to  pay  high  for  the  saving  of  Lhoeac.  A  benefit 
may  be  bought  too  dear  !  " 

"  It  is  like  this,"  said  Roger  Patcham,  sitting 
bunched  in  his  chair  with  knitted  brows,  thinking 
aloud  as  some  men  do  in  their  harassment,  "  I  can 
pay  him  half,  and  for  want  of  the  whole  he  will  set 
himself  here  and  lord  it  as  he  will,  and  who  can  say 
him  nay  ?  The  work  of  twenty  years  gone  in  a 
finger-snap.  And  for  what  ?  That  a  score  or  two 
of  peasants  may  live  a  score  or  two  of  years.  Saints  ! 
but  it's  a  dear  purchase  when  one  reckons  in  Henri 
de  Lhoeac  !  Fool  that  I  was  to  have  forgotten 
Henri  de  Lhoeac.  Twenty  years  he  has  waited, 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         131 

and  now  when  the  pear  is  ripe  he  shakes  the  tree 

and !  But  what  of  this?  Cut  the  claim  in 

half?  Peste  !  How  well  my  Lord  Bishop  knows 
the  affairs  of  Lhoeac !  Truly  he  is  well  served, 
though  if  I  but  knew  who  is  traitor  Monseigneur  de 
Saint-Seurin  would  have  prompt  need  of  a  new 
tool.  The  Seigneur  would  be  played  right  nobly 
once  more,  and  the  fellow  should  hang!  A  shrewd, 
priestly  stroke  that !  Cut  the  claim  in  half ! "  and 
the  Englishman  smiled  grimly.  "  'Tis  a  bribe 
plainly  enough,  but  a  bribe  that  soils  no  palm  in 
the  taking,  since  Lhoeac  would  be  the  gainer.  He 
knew  better  than  to  say,  '  Roger  Patcham,  put  eight 
thousand  crowns  in  thy  pouch  ; '  and — aye,  here 
comes  Mademoiselle.  With  her  there  is  little 
beating  about  the  bush,  and  five  minutes  will  make 
it  aye  or  nay.  I  pray  to  the  Lord  the  thing  he  seeks 
can  be  done  with  some  kind  of  conscience." 

At  the  sound  of  the  quick  rush  of  feet  down  the 
corridor  Roger  Patcham  pushed  the  letter  out  of 
sight.  That  the  politic  prelate  would  say  nought 
about  it  in  his  epistle  to  her  he  was  sure,  and  for  all 
his  own  blunders  he  was  man  enough  to  wish  to  do 
with  a  seeming  grace  that  which,  perchance,  he 
needs  must  do,  though  he  had  no  grace  at  all. 

"  My  whim,  Father  Roger !  "  cried  Denise,  flinging 
the  curtains  aside  with  one  hand  while  the  other 
waved  a  paper  in  the  air.  "  You  have  thought,  it  may 
be,  that  a  woman's  memory  and  a  woman's  will 
would  not  last  a  twelvemonth,  but  it  is  as  I  told  you. 
My  uncle  says  '  come  '  and — and — we  shall  go,  shall 


132  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

we  not,  Father  Roger?      Tis  my  whim,  you  know, 
and  you  were  warned." 

After  all,  she  was  no  more  than  a  child,  this 
Denise  of  twenty  years.  Over  more  than  four 
hundred  square  miles  her  word  was  law  ;  and  ready 
to  her  hand  fifty  men  drew  pay  to  back  her  will, 
without  troubling  their  conscience  as  to  the  right  or 
the  wrong.  Within  the  four  lines  of  Lhoeac  no 
soul  owned  stick  or  stone,  hoof  or  feather,  wife  or 
child  :  nay,  not  even  himself  except  at  her  plea- 
sure. High  and  low  justice  to  all  their  cruellest 
and  mo.'.t  arbitrary  extremes  were  hers  of  heredi- 
tary right,  woman  as  she  was,  for  no  Salic  law 
touched  Lhoeac  ;  and  save  for  the  rights  of  the 
King  she  was  as  unquestioned  within  her  Seigneurie 
as  Anne  of  Brittany  in  her  Duchy.  Let  a  peasant 
thieve,  she  could  hang  him  ;  let  him  kill  her  deer, 
she  could  maim  at  the  wrist ;  let  him  curse  her  for 
her  misused  power,  and  she  could  leave  him  to  rot 
in  prison  and  fling  wife  and  child  out  upon  the  road 
to  starve.  She  could  slay,  torture,  tax,  crush,  and 
no  law  would  interpose  a  finger  to  stop  her.  All 
that  she  knew,  for  Roger  Patcham  was  an  upright 
man  and  had  schooled  her  well,  both  in  her  powers 
and  the  duties  which  sprang  from  them  ;  and  yet, 
knowing  that  she  had  but  to  say  "I  will"  and  so 
make  an  end,  she  linked  her  arm  in  that  of  the 
grizzled  Captain  and  begged  of  his  love  that  which 
she  could  have  commanded.  As  for  Messire  Roger, 
the  pressure  of  her  arm  made  my  Lord  Bishop's 
letter  creak  under  his  doublet,  and  with  two  such 
voices  pleading,  what  could  he  do  but  consent. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         133 

"  Wilt  thou  read  it  ?  "  said  Denise  when  she  had 
thanked  him  as  honestly  as  if  her  pleasuring  had 
been  his  thought  and  not  his  necessity ;  "  it  is  the 
prettiest  letter  that  ever  came  to  Lhoeac.  Thou  art 
to  come,  and  ma  mie  Maman,  so  that  I  may  not  fret ; 
and  I  shall  be  guest  or  play  at  mistress  as  it  pleases 
me.  It  will  be  the  first,  I  think  ;  it  would  daunt 
me  to  rule  my  lord's  great  household.  Yet  there  is 
a  touch  of  sorrow  through  its  prettiness.  '  Are  we 
not  the  last  of  our  race,  we  two,'  saith  he,  '  and  he 
far  gone  in  years  ? '  I  had  not  thought  a  man  could 
write  so  tenderly.  He  must  have  a  noble  heart, 
this  little-known  uncle  of  mine  ;  and  such  a  great 
life  is  his — to  live  for  the  Lord  Christ.  And,  oh, 
thou  art  to  bring  any  half-dozen  of  our  men  thou 
wilt:  '  Needs  must,'  saith  he  again,  'that  Denise de 
Lhoeac  have  her  train  of  honour ! '  Hark  to  that, 
Father  Roger !  Fancy  clattering  through  the  streets 
of  Bordeaux  with  half  a  dozen  hammering  at  our 
heels.  '  Room,  there,  room  for  Queen  Denise  the 
First ! ' '  With  as  grave  a  face  as  her  dancing  eyes 
would  permit,  she  swept  Captain  Patcham  such  a 
curtsey  that  would  have  passed  muster  with  Anne 
of  France  herself. 

"  Read  it  at  thy  leisure,"  she  went  on,  dropping 
the  paper  on  to  his  knees,  "  and  see  if  it  is  not  as 
sweet  a  letter  as  thou  hast  ever  read.  Now  I  will 
go  and  frighten  ma  mie  Maman.  Chere  Maman, 
how  she  will  hate  Bordeaux,  and  how  I  shall  love 
it !  Pausing  at  the  doorway,  Denise  looked  back 
across  her  shoulder.  "  Meluzza  freed  her  from  one 


134  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

plague ;  who  knows  what  blessing  Bordeaux  may 
have  in  store  for  her  ?  " 

Dropping  the  curtain  with  a  laugh  that  ended  in 
a  snatch  of  song,  she  left  Roger  Patcham  to  his  re- 
flections. Nor,  for  all  the  sharp  edge  of  his  suspi- 
cion, could  he  find  fault  with  Monseigneur's  letter. 
It  was  all  it  ought  to  be,  and  no  more ;  frank,  affec- 
tionate, playful,  and  yet  as  Denise  had  said,  with  a 
touch  of  pathos  that  was  not  unnatural  from  the 
aged,  unknown  uncle  to  the  young  girl  last  of  his 
blood — a  pathos  that  did  as  much  honour  to  his 
heart  as  the  letter  to  Roger  Patcham  did  to  his  head. 
An  ideal  letter,  the  Englishman  would  have  thought, 
but  for  the  shadows  which  the  past  cast  upon  its 
lines. 

"  Trust  Henri  de  Lhoeac  no  further  than  the 
length  of  your  little  finger,"  the  old  Seigneur  had 
said  to  him.  But  was  it  really  trusting?  Was  there 
any  venture  of  faith  at  all  in  this  visit  ?  And  strain- 
ing of  caution  ?  Six  men  and  himself,  Madame 
Catherine  and  the  girl's  own  women  all  about  her — 
with  these  at  her  right  hand  and  at  her  left  there 
was  little  of  trust  needed. 

"And,"  said  he,  stretching  himself,  "  'tis  the  girl's 
whim,  and  for  good  or  bad  there's  an  end  of  it." 

But  for  all  her  eagerness  it  was  three  weeks  be- 
fore Denise  saw  the  greatest  sight  of  her  twenty 
years  of  life.  Madame  Catherine  was  feminine  to 
her  finger-nails,  and  so  not  to  be  hurried  over  such 
grave  matters  as  the  plenishing  of  wardrobes. 
There  would  be  gaieties  at  the  palace  of  my  Lord 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         135 

Bishop,  and  the  heiress  of  Lhoeac  must  needs  make 
a  brave  show,  to  say  nought  of  Mademoiselle's  cha- 
peron. Nor,  upon  his  part,  could  Messire  Patcham 
scrape  together  eight  thousand  crowns  at  a  day's 
warning  ;  so  between  the  two  the  girl  was  at  her 
wits'  end  with  impatience. 

"  What  matters  a  dress  or  a  cloak  or  a  laced 
petticoat  more  or  less  ? "  she  said  petulantly  to 
Captain  Roger.  "  Tis  myself  my  uncle  wants,  and 
not  a  milliner's  block." 

But  with  his  own  ends  in  view  Roger  shook  his 
head. 

"  Bide  a  while,  my  bird,  and  you  will  sing  another 
tune.  A  pretty  woman  is  like  a  fine  picture,  all 
the  better  for  being  well  framed.  It's  little  thanks 
you  would  give  Madame  Catherine  if  she  saved  you 
a  week's  fret  now  at  the  cost  of  a  month's  heart- 
burning later  on.  A  month's?  Nay,  a  whole  life- 
time's ?  To  be  the  grey  mouse  at  Lhoeac,  where 
all  are  mice  and  all  are  grey,  is  well  enough,  but  I'll 
warrant  you  will  change  your  mind  when  the  sharp- 
clawed  lady  cats  of  Saint-Seurin  get  hunting  you." 

Which  shows  that  in  spite  of  his  bewilderment  at 
times  Roger  Patcham  had  at  least  taken  his  first 
lesson  in  the  ways  of  women.  But  the  sorrows  of 
the  three  weeks  could  at  worst  make  them  no  longer 
than  three  weeks,  and  once  fairly  upon  the  road 
they  were  forgotten. 

"Truly  a  great  city  is  the  most  wonderful  thing 
in  the  world!"  said  Denise,  as  with  flushed  face 
and  restless  eyes  she  rode  along  the  quays  of  Bor- 


136  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

deaux,  and  turned  in  at  the  Porte  des  Salinieres. 
" Mon  Dieu!  What  walls!  How  dared  the 
English  so  much  as  come  within  sight  of  them  ! 
One,  two,  three,  four  towers  from  that  angle,  then 
this  great  gate,  and,  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  the  turrets  beyond 
are  past  counting  !  What  a  famished  nation  yours 
must  be,  Father  Roger,  when  nothing  less  than  this 
would  stay  its  hunger!  " 

"  Sharp  teeth  and  a  strong  stomach  go  far," 
answered  Roger,  swelling  his  leanness  with  pride 
and  satisfaction,  "  and  it  took  more  than  Bordeaux, 
aye,  more  than  Guienne  itself,  to  take  the  whet  off 
the  appetite.  But  that  is  dead  and  gone.  Let  it 
rest,  Mademoiselle,  lest  some  hot-headed  fool  pay 
off  a  nation's  debt  on  the  body  of  one  man  and 
leave  Lhoeac  and  me  alike  the  poorer  by  a  life — a 
thing  mighty  inconvenient  for  either  of  us  to  spare 
just  now !" 

That  Denise  should  cry  out  was  no  marvel,  since  it 
was  her  first  sight  of  a  great  city.  Hitherto  Assier, 
Saint  Agnes,  or  Puyrac,  the  villages  of  the  Seigneu- 
rie,  one  double  tortuous  row  of  houses  with  three 
or  four  sprawling  lanes  to  the  side,  had  been  her 
largest  knowledge  of  life  in  the  bunch,  except  per- 
haps a  petty  town  on  the  way  to  or  from  Meluzza. 
Riding  to  Italy,  Roger  Patcham  had  kept  to  the 
by-ways,  giving  Toulouse,  Nimes,  Avignon,  and  the 
like  a  wide  berth. 

Bordeaux,  therefore,  with  its  great  turreted  walls, 
its  castles,  towers,  markets,  palaces,  churches,  its 
shipping  along  the  thronged  quay-side,  its  tramp 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         137 

and  stir  and  rollicking  hum  of  life,  its  wilderness  of 
streets,  its  ebb  and  flow  of  varied  interests ;  its 
wealth  and  magnificence,  poverty  and  meanness,  all 
crowding,  jostling,  shouldering  one  another,  were  a 
revelation.  The  shipping  alone  was  a  nine-days' 
astonishment  to  one  who  knew  no  larger  craft  than 
a  toy  boat  on  a  brook  or  a  walnut-shell  set  adrift  on 
a  pond,  and  thrice  as  she  rode  past  the  four  turrets 
on  her  left  Denise  had  hindered  the  traffic  that  she 
might  closer  watch  the  gay  flags,  the  flapping  sails, 
the  sailors  shouting  and  singing  as  they  leaned 
across  the  yards  at  what  seemed  the  peril  of  their 
lives  or  busied  themselves  with  the  maze  of  cordage. 
"  See,"  said  Roger  Patcham,  his  eyes  kindling 
with  a  fire  as  bright  as  her  own.  "  There  and  there 
and  there,  aye,  and  half  a  dozen  times  more,  the 
bonny  red  cross  of  Saint  George.  'Tis  another  set 
of  teeth  wherewith  England  gobbles  Bordeaux 
nowadays,  but,  my  faith,  it  fills  the  stomach  all  the 
same,  and  the  feast  leaves  less  of  an  ache  behind  it ! 
God  be  praised  that  I  have  seen  the  brave  flag  once 
again.  The  sight  of  it  makes  my  heart  leap  and 
my  blood  hot,  and  if  there  were  kin  of  mine  left 
behind  the  white  cliffs  I  think  yon  fluttering 
patches  would  woo  me  home.  Yon  blue  and  white 
is  a  Portingal ;  nearer  by  two  is  the  Spanish  rag, 
yellow  and  red  in  a  kind  of  jaundiced  rage. 
Further,  by  the  stairway  is  a  lumbering  Fleming, 
with  bows  like  a  butter-boat,  but  yet  a  lad  that 
chains  his  end  with  not  overmuch  of  a  'by  your 
leave.'  Of  the  rest,  two  or  three  arc  Rochelluis, 


138  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

and  the  balance,  flag  or  no  flag,  are  English.  That 
they  show  no  colour  is  their  affair,  and  nine  times 
out  of  ten,  whether  by  sea  or  by  land,  with  prince, 
priest,  or  peasant,  there  is  no  wisdom  like  caution. 
Come,  Mademoiselle,  let  us  make  forward.  We 
have  blocked  the  current  till  there  is  a  back-wash 
behind  us  like  that  of  a  choked  stream.  Look  to 
yourselves  there  in  front,  look  to  yourselves.  Pull 
back  thy  barrow  a  foot  or  two,  my  friend,  lest  you 
gall  the  beast  and  suffer  for  it  ;  and  thou,  keep  thy 
vile  hides  more  to  the  lee.  Whew !  they  stink  like 

• Beware  of  yon  cask,  Mademoiselle  !  The  fellow 

must  be  as  full  as  his  own  staves  to  trundle  it  so 
wildly,  clean  under  the  beast's  feet.  My  word,  but 
four  legs  is  the  nobler  animal  of  the  two  !  This 
way,  this  way  ; "  and  turning  to  the  left,  Roger 
Patcham  rode  under  the  grey  gateway  with  his 
troop  straggling  a  furlong  b'ehind  him.  But  once 
within  the  narrow  street  beyond  the  gate,  he  bade 
the  escort  close  up. 

"  Ride  smarter,  men,"  he  cried  sharply,  "  and 
more  like  men  than  meal-bags.  Would  you  have 
all  Bordeaux  on  the  giggle  at  us  for  greenhorn 
bumpkins  ?  Now  forward,  and  at  a  trot." 

From  the  throat  of  the  narrow  street,  cunningly 
contracted  so  that  it  might  the  better  dominate  the 
approach  to  the  gate,  they  passed  on  to  the  broader 
road  which  had  at  one  time  been  the  fosse  of  the 
ancient  city,  but  from  which  there  now  sprang  a 
teeming  network  of  busy  streets  and  evil-smelling 
laneways.  To  the  right  were  the  old  walls  that  had 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         139 

stood  since  the  days  of  Saint  Louis,  the  great  gate 
leading  to  the  market  rising  at  the  centre  in  a  series 
of  turrets.  Past  these  they  rode,  Saint  Eloi's  spire 
on  the  left  ;  past  the  great  marble  cross  that  split 
the  traffic  at  the  upper  end  of  the  street  ;  then,  still 
skirting  the  old  town,  to  the  right  under  the  shadow 
of  the  Chateau  du  Ha,  built  by  Charles  the  Seventh 
to  overawe  his  trusty  and  well-beloved  lieges, 
through  an  antique  gateway,  black  with  time  and 
worn  with  war  ;  obliquely,  still  to  the  right,  past 
the  Cathedral  of  Saint  Andre"  and  so  out  to  the 
western  fosse.  Thence,  leaving  the  ruins  of  the 
Palais  de  Tutelle  on  the  right,  it  was  no  more  than 
a  three  minutes'  trot  to  the  Rue  Saint  Germain. 

Once  there,  Roger  Patcham  checked  his  horse  to 
a  walk. 

"  Yonder,"  said  he,  pointing  ahead,  "  is  the  pal- 
ace of  my  Lord  Bishop." 

"  And  thou,  in  thy  cleverness,  hast  brought  us 
straight  as  a  homing  pigeon,"  cried  Denise. 

"Cleverness?"  he  answered  sourly.  "As  to 
cleverness,  the  less  said  of  that  the  better.  I  have 
ever  heard  that  to  get  into  a  web  was  a  simpler 
matter  than  to  get  out  again,  and  here  we  are  !  " 

III. 

For  thirteen  days  Denise  has  queened  it  in  the 
hotel  of  Monseigneur  de  Saint-Seuiin.  Mistress 
and  guest  in  one,  as  he  had  promised,  she  had  in 
these  thirteen  days  seen  much  of  that  which  is  ac- 
counted the  greatness  of  this  world  as  well  as  the 


140  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

glory  of  the  service  of  the  next,  but  always,  as  he 
was  careful  to  contrive  with  my  Lord  Bishop,  the 
centre  of  the  greatness  and  the  glory. 

Was  it  some  solemn  ecclesiastical  ceremony  in 
the  collegiate  church  of  Saint-Seurin  beyond  the 
walls — a  ceremony  in  which  the  solemnity  revealed 
rather  than  obscured  the  pomp  and  grandeur  of  the 
sacerdotal  functions?  Then  of  natural  course  the 
noble  and  commanding  personality  of  Monseigneur 
was  the  focus  of  observation.  Gorgeous  in  his 
symbolic  vestments,  gracious  in  his  grave  dignity, 
unctuous,  benign,  reverent,  he  was  the  thrice  bright 
sun  round  which  all  revolved,  and  to  Denise  the 
worship  and  the  purpose  of  the  whole  were  lost  in 
a  growing  awe  of  the  individual  greatness  of  this 
new-found  uncle — an  effect  which  might  have  been 
not  foreign  to  his  purpose  and  not  uncalculated 
upon.  If  it  was  life  in  its  gayer  mood — and  who  in 
all  Bordeaux  knew  as  did  Monseigneur  the  value  of 
both  worlds  ? — it  was  to  her  but  another  revelation 
of  perfection.  Thrice  in  these  thirteen  days  had  he 
held  receptions  in  the  palace,  to  her  honour  and  his 
own  glorification,  and  thrice  in  all  the  thronging 
crowds  of  notables,  peers,  prelates,  and  politicals, 
there  was  none  who  outshone  him,  and  Bordeaux, 
with  its  separate  parliament  and  half-independent 
government  had  held  itself  in  wit,  wealth,  and 
culture  to  be  but  little  short  of  the  glory  of  Paris. 
Then  it  was  indeed  a  good  Bordelaise  would  have 
reversed  the  precedence  without  a  questioning 
qualm.  Dressed  almost  with  a  severe  plainness, 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         141 

wearing  neither  jewel  nor  ornament  save  the  cross 
upon  his  breast,  and  never,  as  was  the  common 
custom  of  the  day,  secularising  the  priest  by  drag- 
ging down  the  eternal  world  to  the  pettiness  of  the 
temporal,  that  Monseigneur  was  still  the  centre  of  at- 
traction and  a  marvel  to  more  than  Roger  Patcham. 

To  the  first  of  these  receptions  Captain  Roger 
had  gone  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek. 

"  Now,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  comes  Made- 
moiselle's disillusion,  and  not  a  day  too  soon.  Let 
my  Lord  Bishop  forget  his  years  and  calling  as 
men  say  he  does  and,  my  word  for  it,  Mademoiselle 
Denise  will  close  his  open  mouth  with  a  snap.  Let 
him  shock  her  reverence  for  religion,  and  that  for 
which  religion  stands,  and  his  day  is  done.  For 
such  an  offence  not  even  the  last  of  the  Lhoeacs 
could  earn  forgiveness  !  " 

But  the  expected  did  not  happen,  and  Roger 
Patcham  went  to  his  bed  that  night  a  troubled 
and  a  thoughtful  man.  The  waters  over  which 
they  sailed  were  deeper  than  he  fathomed,  and 
Henri  de  Lhoeac  must  indeed  have  a  heavy  issue 
at  stake  when  he  so  suddenly  and  completely  gave 
his  past  the  lie.  Nor  was  that  all.  Thenceforward, 
both  within  the  palace  and  without,  Monseigneur 
saw  to  it  that  the  Englishman's  bewilderment  and 
alarm  had  good  cause  for  growth.  Abroad  and  at 
home  he  was  the  same  grave,  benign,  and  reverend 
prelate,  and  day  by  day  Denise  de  Lhoeac  fell  more 
fully  under  the  spell  of  a  life  which,  without 
austerity  or  ostentation,  revealed  a  spirit  that  in 


142  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

wisdom,  power,  and  rectitude  was  on  a  plane  apart 
from  all  her  knowledge  of  life.  Had  he  dared, 
Roger  Patcham  would  have  hinted  a  warning,  but 
in  her  then  mood  a  warning  would  have  been  a 
slander,  and  so  have  set  a  yet  keener  edge  upon 
her  admiration.  Few  things  quicken  reverence  like 
the  defending  of  the  thing  revered  against  an  un- 
justified attack. 

Almost  daily  he  had  sought  to  rid  himself  of 
old  Guy  de  Lhoeac's  legacy,  but  invariably  had 
been  put  aside  with  an  evasion.  Monseigneur  was 
at  his  devotions  ;  Monseigneur  was  in  conference 
with  the  Duke  of  This,  or  the  Lord  of  That  ; 
Monseigneur's  almoner  was  elsewhere ;  until  at  last, 
meeting  Monseigneur  in  the  central  courtyard, 
Roger  Patcham  bluntly  said  that  it  had  been  no 
easy  matter  to  gather  in  eight  thousand  crowns, 
and  now  it  seemed  as  hard  to  be  quit  of  them. 
Whereupon  Monsieur  de  Saint-Seurin  turned  upon 
him  smartly. 

"  Eight  thousand  crowns  ?  So  thou  art  at  last 
wise  in  this  generation,  Master  Patcham  ?  Well, 
the  paying  of  them  can  wait  the  issue  of  thy  good- 
will. That,  thou  wilt  remember,  was  the  essence 
of  the  bargain,"  and  rounded  on  his  heel  as  if  the 
last  word  was  said. 

But  Bishop  or  no  Bishop,  Roger,  being  deadly  in 
earnest,  caught  him  by  the  sleeve. 

"  And  why  wait,  my  lord  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Is  my 
good-will  not  proved?  The  thing  you  desired  is 
done,  and  Mademoiselle  is  here  in  Bordeaux." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         143 

"Bordeaux?"  echoed  Monseigneur,  wrenching 
himself  free  and  going  on  his  way  unconcernedly. 
"  Who  said  aught  of  Bordeaux  ?  " 

All  of  which,  and  remembering  my  Lord  Bishop's 
growing  power  with  Denise,  made  Captain  Roger 
tremble  for  Lhoeac. 

The  Hotel  de  Saint-Seurin  was  a  huge  block  with 
a  depth  equal  to  its  frontage  ;  that  is  to  say,  it  stood 
about  square  upon  its  foundations.  A  broad  door- 
way, within  which  was  a  porter's  lodge,  opened 
upon  the  street-level,  and  gave  access  to  a  sidelong 
flight  of  stone  steps.  At  the  head  of  these  was  a 
second  door  of  immense  strength,  its  five  inches 
of  oak  planks  being  ribbed  and  studded  with  iron. 
This,  in  turn,  gave  upon  the  hall,  which  at  the 
further  side  opened  upon  a  square  courtyard  five 
stories  deep,  and  bordered  by  tier  on  tier  of  pillared 
galleries,  the  cloister  walks  of  my  Lord  Bishop  in 
his  new-born  moods  of  holy  meditation.  On  the 
fourth  storey,  opening  off  the  gallery  and  remote 
from  the  turmoil  of  the  world,  as  was  fitting  for 
such  a  place,  was  Monseigneur's  study. 

Of  all  the  rooms  in  the  palace  which  Denise  had 
visited — and  being  free  of  the  house  there  were 
few  places  where  her  curiosity  had  not  carried 
her — this  one  alone  struck  her  with  a  chill.  In 
spite  of  the  littered  table  which  filled  its  centre, 
the  manuscripts,  the  parchments,  the  duodecimo 
classics  of  Aldo  Manuzio,  upon  the  shelves  on  two 
sides  of  the  room,  the  upright  writing-desk  placed 
in  true  student  fashion  where  the  light  came  in 


144  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

softly  from  the  left,  it  lacked  for  her  that  strange 
and  subtle  life-likeness  to  its  master  which  is  the 
inalienable  heritage  of  all  much-used  and  well- 
beloved  four  walls.  Let  the  room  be  in  a  palace 
or  a  hovel,  let  it  be  a  prison  cell  or  an  open  booth 
on  the  wind-swept  brow  of  a  hill,  and  so  sure  as 
the  space  has  walls  it  will  in  time  absorb  in  some 
measure  his  personality.  In  Monseigneur's  study 
the  shell  was  there,  but  the  hundred  accretions  of  a 
score  of  years  were  absent. 

That  much  was  dimly  in  her  mind  as,  on  the 
thirteenth  day  of  her  stay  in  Bordeaux,  she  sat  by 
the  end  of  the  disordered  table  while  Henri  de 
Lhoeac,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  paced 
the  dingy  room  in  an  interval  of  silence. 

"  It  is  seventy  years,  my  daughter,"  he  said  at  last, 
picking  up  the  broken  thread  of  his  monologue, 
"  seventy  years  since  a  maid  of  France  saved 
France,  and  lost  herself  in  the  saving.  Surely, 
surely,  to  every  true  soul  a  beggarly  loss  for  so 
great  a  gain.  The  pity  of  it  is  that  the  glory  comes 
so  rarely  and  to  so  few.  But  it  does  come,  it  does 
come,  for  now,  how  can  I  tell  you  in  few  and 
fitting  words  that  Christendom  stands  in  as 
urgent  need  of  salvation  as  France  did  then,  and 
that  a  maid  of  France  can  be  the  power  under 
heaven  to  turn  the  destinies  of  this  world,  and 
out  of  evil  bring  righteousness,  a  greater  glory,  a 
greater  greatness  by  so  much  as  Christendom  sur- 
passes France?  " 

He  ceased  his  walk  as  he  commenced  speaking, 


THE  MOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         145 

and  kneeling  one  knee  upon  the  chair  drawn  before 
the  table  by  which  she  sat,  he  bent  towards  her,  his 
brows  down  drawn  and  his  face  full  of  a  solemn 
gravity. 

"  Christendom  !  "  he  went  on,  with  an  upward 
gesture  in  the  air,  a  note  of  pain  breaking  sharply 
through  the  measured  deliberation  of  his  speech. 
"  Is  not  the  word  almost  now  a  mockery?  A  Borgia 
throned  in  the  sacred  chair  of  Peter  and  yet  it  is  still 
Christendom;  the  abomination  of  desolation  standing 
where  it  ought  not  to  stand,  a  service  of  devils 
profaning  the  holy  things  of  the  church,  offences 
unnatural  and  unnamable  flaunted  unblushingly 
in  the  face  of  an  outraged  world  !  The  shame 
of  it ;  oh  !  the  shame  of  it !  and  if  the  fountain- 
head  be  evil,  what  shall  the  waters  be  but  polluted 
and  accursed  even  to  their  furthest  limits?  Not 
Guienne,  not  Francealone,  but  all  of  God  Almighty's 
world,  groans  under  the  tyranny  of  wrong ;  and 
from  the  Head  of  the  Church  upon  earth  to  the 
meanest  monk  living  and  thieving  to  glut  his 
appetite,  the  flock  of  Christ  is  ravaged  by  those 
who  are  its  shepherds.  Oh  !  the  shame  of  it,  the 
bitter  shame  of  it  !  I  say  again ;  the  torture,  the 
anguish,  to  stand  by  and  see  this  illimitable  power 
of  evil  sweep  these  million  souls  to  an  eternal 
perdition.  To  see  it,  to  know  it,  to  suffer  for  it, 
and  yet  to  be  impotent !  Ah  !  my  God,  yes,  yes  ; 
here  lies  the  sting  ;  to  be  impotent !  " 

As  he  spoke  his  voice  quickened  and  took  fire, 
his  eyes  glowed,  he  braced  and  stretched  himself 


146  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

as  a  man  does  who  faces  danger,  conscious  but 
unafraid ;  and  to  the  rapt  gaze  of  Denise  it  seemed 
as  if  the  solemn  face  turned  down  to  hers  was  swept 
with  a  sorrow  that  passed  beyond  the  common 
agonies  of  earth.  But  at  the  last  the  lids  closed 
over  the  eager  eyes,  and  his  voice  broke  and  died 
away.  Courage,  righteous  wrath,  enthusiasm,  were 
overborne  with  hopelessness ;  the  devil  upon  earth 
was  too  strong  for  the  powers  that  faced  him.  But 
the  dejection  was  not  for  long.  Suddenly  he  woke 
into  new  life,  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead 
with  a  quick  gesture,  and  drawing  himself  erect, 
threw  off  his  weakness. 

"  Illimitable  ?  Impotent  ?  "  he  went  on,  his  voice 
ringing  clear  and  full.  "  Nay,  nay,  that  were  un- 
faith  ;  that  were  sacrilege  ;  that  were  to  doubt  God. 
Even  as  He  raised  up  a  maid  to  save  France  so  will 
He  raise  up  a  maid  to  save  His  holy  church ;  and 
thou,  Denise,  art  she." 

"  I,  my  father,  I  ?  " 

Denise  had  sat  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap, 
listening  intently  to  his  every  word,  her  face  reflect- 
ing his  moods  as  a  pool  the  blue  and  the  cloud  of 
the  sky  above  it ;  now,  grasping  the  sides  of  the 
chair,  she  thrust  herself  forward  as  if  to  follow  him 
as  he  drew  back. 

"  How  can  this  thing  be?" 

"  Thus.  Do  as  has  been  done.  Follow  Joan  of 
Arc,  who  gave  herself  and  counted  the  cost  but 
light." 

"  Myself?      But    how,    but  how  ?     Can    I    take 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         147 

sword  in  hand  against  so  great  an  evil  ?  But  that 
is  foolishness,  for  this — this  is " 

"  No,  daughter,  no.  This  warfare  is  not  against 
flesh  and  blood.  Nevertheless  victory  cometh 
through  the  gift  of  thyself." 

"  To  death  ?  " 

"  Not  so  ;  to  life,  rather;  to  that  which  is  the 
natural  course  for  Denise  de  Lhoeac.  To  marriage." 

"  Marriage,  my  lord  ? "  and  her  face  flushed. 
"  You  speak  mysteries." 

"  Listen,  and  let  us  reason  this  calmly.  From 
whence  must  regeneration  come — from  above  or 
from  below  ?  from  the  brain  or  from  the  feet  ? 
from  that  which  guides  or  from  that  which  is  led? 
from  the  chair  of  Saint  Peter  or  from  that  which, 
after  all,  is  that  upon  which  the  church  stands — 
the  ignorant  mass  of  the  people?  Is  there  room 
for  question?  Truly,  no.  Regeneration  must  come 
from  above  ;  he  who  seeks  to  regenerate  from  below 
fails,  for  it  is  not  a  new  birth,  but  revolution. 
Follow  me  now.  The  world  is  weary  of  the 
enormity  of  this  Borgia  and  groans  for  deliverance. 
His  cup  of  iniquity  is  full  to  overrunning.  Long, 
long  has  God  stood  waiting  in  the  shadows  until 
the  times  were  ripe  and  of  late  His  arm  hath  moved. 
I  think — I  think  I  see  the  sword  of  Justice  poised  to 
strike.  A  year  may  pass,  two  years  even,  since  God's 
mercy  is  long-suffering,  then  the  sword  shall  fall. 
Borgia  must  go  to  his  own  place.  What  then? 
This.  Let  there  be  set  in  the  vacant  chair  a  man 
whose  life  shall  be  an  atonement  for  the  present 


148  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

pollution  of  holy  things,  a  man  of  piety,  foresight, 
wisdom,  prudence,  and  indomitable  will ;  a  man 
who  will  count  no  abnegation,  no  sacrifice,  no 
labour  too  great  if  but  the  church  be  purified  and 
set  anew  upon  its  divine  mission  of  peace  upon 
earth  and  the  bringing  near  to  man  of  the  glory 
of  God.  Let  such  a  one  be  set  there,  I  say  ;  and 
could  there  be  a  more  fitting  end  for  the  last  of  the 
line  of  Lhoeac  ?  " 

"  Thou,  thou,  thou  ?  " 

"  I,  daughter,  I.  God  works  through  men,  and 
happy  is  he  who  seeks  to  fit  himself  to  the  hand  of 
the  worker.  Nay,  more  than  that ;  woe,  woe,  bitter, 
eternal,  unutterable  woe  to  him  who  shrinks  from 
the  appointed  service." 

"  But,  my  lord,  a  moment  since  you  spoke  of  me. 
My  mind  is  in  a  maze.  How  can  I ?  " 

"Thus.  Will  the  College  of  Cardinals— God 
works  through  men,  I  said — will  it  know  anything 
of  the  obscure  Bishop  of  Saint-Seurin  ?  Truly,  no. 
A  man  must  have  his  stand  near  the  steps  of  a 
throne  before  one  will  lift  him  into  the  seat.  Let 
the  Bishop  of  Saint-Seurin  but  be  named  one  of 
the  Sacred  College,  and — oh,  aye,  I  know  there  are 
those  already  who  turn  their  eyes  to  France  and 
whisper  that  George  of  Amboise  is  the  ideal  Pope. 
Well,  I  quarrel  with  no  man's  opinions  in  such  a 
matter,  but  let  Henri  of  Lhoeac  but  fairly  measure 
himself  with  George  of  Amboise,  and  by  the  Lord 
God  !  I  have  no  fear  for  the  issue.  Saint-Seurin 
will  overshadow  Rouen.  Here  comes  in  your  part." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         149 

The  voluble  rush  of  words  slackened.  My  Lord 
Bishop  had  reached  a  point  in  his  argument 
when  it  behoved  him  to  pick  his  way  with  circum- 
spection. Bombast,  a  flood  of  vague  assertions,  a 
torrent  of  generalities  no  longer  served  his  purpose, 
and  for  a  moment  he  paused,  dropping  his  lids  so 
that  his  eyes  were  no  wider  than  the  rim  of  a  franc- 
piece. 

"  La  Clazonne — the  lord  that  is — will  do  that  for 
a  kinsman  which  he  will  not  do  for  a  stranger ;  and 
through  La  Clazonne  Alexander  the  Sixth  will  do 
that — not  knowing  what  he  does — which  makes 
Henri  de  Lhoeac  his  successor." 

"  I  do  not  understand." 

"  It  is  like  this." 

From  the  table  by  which  he  stood  de  Lhoeac 
lifted  a  roll  of  parchment,  one  of  a  pile  that  might 
have  been  laid  there  for  the  purpose,  and  set  it  on 
end.  Six  inches  away  he  set  another,  and  yet 
another,  each  a  half-inch  longer  than  that  which 
preceded  it,  until  he  had  five  stretching  in  a  line 
across  the  table.  Then  he  flipped  the  one  nearest 
him  with  his  forefinger,  tilting  it  against  its  neigh- 
bour, which  it  overthrew,  flinging  it  against  the 
next,  until  the  last  was  toppled  over. 

"  Now  is  it  clear?  What  I  mean  is  this.  La 
Clazonne  can  move  Peter  of  Gie,  who  can  move 
La  Tremoille,  who  can  move  Csesar  Borgia,  who 
can  move  the  Pope.  For  the  Bishop  of  Saint- 
Seurin  La  Clazonne  will  stir  no  finger.  Why 
should  he  ?  There  are  a  hundred  bishops  in 


ISO  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

France.  But  for  the  man  who,  through  his  son, 
Giles  La  Clazonne,  is  kinsman  to  his  house  he  will 
move  Gie,  since  thenceforward  Lhoeac  and  La 
Clazonne  will  be  one.  Our  ends  are  different,  but 
we  must  use  men  as  we  find  them.  For  him  it  is 
the  glory  of  Lhoeac  reflected  on  La  Clazonne  ;  for 
us  it  is  the  regeneration  of  the  world,  the  purification 
of  Christendom,  the  bringing  near  of  God's  mercy 
to  men.  Daughter,  the  time  is  short,  and  such 
things  are  not  done  in  a  day." 

"But" — and  the  face  that  looked  up  to  his  was 
a  very  troubled  face ;  she  yearned  to  do  the  right 
if  ever  a  soul  did,  but  what  was  right  was  not  clear 
— "  I  am  but  a  girl,  and  ignorant.  Let  me  have  time 
to  think." 

"  He  who  setteth  his  hand  to  the  plough  and 
turneth  back  is  not  worthy  of  Me.  He  who  loveth 
houses  and  lands  more  than  Me  is  not  worthy  of 
Me.  Seek  ye  first  the  kingdom  of  God  and  His 
righteousness,  for  what  profiteth  the  world  if  the 
soul  be  a  castaway  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  laying  her  hand  suddenly 
upon  his  sleeve.  "  Let  him  have  Lhoeac  and  be 

content.  It  is You  spoke  of  marriage,  my 

lord  ;  and  to  me  marriage  without  love  is  sacrilege." 

"And  so  the  service  of  God  Almighty  is  to  be 
left  undone  because  His  ways  are  not  ours!  Are 
you  so  steeped  in  provincialism  that  you  do  not 
know  what  befits  the  honour  of  a  gentleman  ?  La 
Clazonne  will  befriend  a  kinsman  but  do  nought  for 
a  bribe.  There  is  no  other  course,  daughter." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         151 

"  Let  me  think,  let  me  think — give  me  to-night. 
Twelve  hours — twelve  hours  out  of  a  lifetime  are  not 
much.  Oh  !  it  is  not  right  to  put  so  cruel  a  choice 
before  a  girl  and  leave  her  no  time  for  thought." 

"  Therefore  do  I  choose  for  you,  I  who  under- 
stand. And  have  I  not  thought — saints !  have  I 
not  thought  ?  Aye,  through  the  vigil  of  a  hundred 
nights'  praying,  fasting,  weeping  !  See,  daughter  : 
this  Giles  la  Clazonne  is  a  soldier  wedded  to  camps. 
I  will  vouch  for  it  that  he  seeks  no  more  from  you 
than  a  marriage  in  name." 

"  Will  he  set  his  oath  to  that,  my  lord  ?  and  is  he 
a  man  who,  having  sworn,  will  keep  his  plight?  " 

"  He  will  swear,  have  no  fear  for  that.  No,  nor 
for  his  faith.  What  ?  Would  I  sacrifice  you  to  a 
wastrel  ? — I,  your  uncle  and  God's  minister.  La 
Clazonne  is  as  proper  a  man  in  mind,  spirit,  and 
body  as  there  is  in  all  Guienne." 

"  What  ?  "  answered  Denise,  with  a  sneer ;  "  and 
yet  he  can  stoop  to  such  a  bargain  as  this  !  " 

"  A  man's  ways  are  not  a  girl's  ways ;  but  what 
he  swears  to  he  will  hold  to.  As  for  thee,  daughter, 
how  many  thousand  holy  nuns  are  there  in  this 
France  of  ours,  and  what  will  this  life  of  thine  be 
worse  than  theirs  ?  Nay,  it  will  be  wider,  fuller, 
nobler;  unfettered,  uncramped,  in  the  world  and 
yet  not  of  the  world  ;  mistress  of  Lhoeac " 

"  Aye,"  she  broke  in  with  a  start,  "  what  of 
Lhoeac?  It  may  be  I  can  do  what  I  will  with 
myself,  but  Lhoeac  must  not  suffer.  That  were 
treason." 


152  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  Nor  shall  it.  Lhoeac,  rather,  is  the  gainer,  and 
had  Lhoeac  a  voice,  Lhoeac  would  bid  you  do  as  I 
bid  you  ;  nay,  as  the  truth  bids  you.  Sooner  or 
later  thou  wouldst  marry  some  lord  of  Brittany, 
Artois,  Picardy,  or  the  like,  who,  howsoever  he 
loved  thee,  had  no  love  for  Lhoeac,  since  north 
is  north  and  south  is  south,  and  the  two  are  no 
more  one  than  the  bitter  of  an  orange-rind  and 
the  sweet  of  its  juice.  Now  Lhoeac  is  bound  up 
in  the  same  bundle  as  La  Clazonne.  The  boun- 
daries that  before  met  will  now  merge,  and  so 
through  union  Lhoeac  will  be  the  stronger.  A 
blessed  strength  and  a  needful,  believe  me ;  for  I 
foresee  that  in  the  time  to  come  the  King  from 
above  will  draw  towards  the  people  from  beneath, 
and  whatsoever  of  weakness  lies  between  will  be 
ground  to  powder.  The  feeble  lordships  will  go, 
but  have  no  fear  for  Lhoeac  if  it  is  once  linked  with 
Clazonne." 

"  Every  way  I  am  answered,  and  yet  for  all  the 
answering  it  is  abhorrent.  When  must  this  thing 
be?" 

"  Giles  La  Clazonne  is  in  Bordeaux,  and — the 
time  is  short,  too  short  if  God's  justice  is  not  held 
back." 

"  But,"  said  Denise,  clasping  and  unclasping  her 
hands  in  her  uncertainty  and  distress,  a  movement 
that  was  a  trick  of  hers.  "  There  are  conditions." 

"  Make  them,  my  daughter." 

"  It  must  be  secret." 

"  La  Clazonn£  accepts  the  condition." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MARRIAGE.         153 

"  He  must  be  bound  as  you  yourself  have  said." 

"  He  shall  be  bound." 

"  Lhoeac  shall  be  mine  in  fact  as  well  as  name, 
so  long  at  least  as  the  old  lord  lives." 

"  La  Clazonne  agrees." 

"If  this — this — Giles  La  Clazonne  dies  before 
his  father,  Lhoeac  shall  be  mine,  as  it  is  now,  mine 
without  question  or  quibble." 

"  That  he  may  object  to." 

"  Monseigneur,  I  must  protect  my  people  as  best 
I  can.  While  I  live  no  stranger  shall  be  set  over 
them.  As  I  said,  it  would  be  treason." 

"  Well,  be  it  so  ;  I  will  see  to  it  that  he  accepts  that 
condition  also.  Are  these  all  ?  To-night,  then,  and 
I  shall  provide  safe  witnesses." 

"  To-night  ? "  she  cried,  aghast ;  "  but  I  must 
have  time  to  prepare." 

"  What  ?  Preparations,  and  the  thing  a  secret  ? 
To-night,  Denise,  to-night ;  there  is  neither  need 
nor  room  for  delay." 

"  Oh ! "  she  answered,  rising  from  her  chair, 
glamoured  by  these  thirteen  days  of  strange  life, 
mystified,  swept  off  her  mind's  balance  by  his 
vehemence  and  ready  flood  of  words.  "  Truly 
either  God  is  with  you  in  this  thing,  or  He  has  let 
loose  the  powers  of  evil,  for  you  meet  me  at  every 
point." 

At  the  door  she  turned. 

"  One  more  condition.  I  will  not  see  his  face 
nor  shall  he  see  mine.  For  all  my  consent,  I  am 
ashamed.  Tell  him  that,  Monseigneur." 


154  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  That,  too,  shall  be  as  you  will ;  but  I  take  it 
that  your  word  is  pledged  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  she,  slowly,  "  it  is  pledged." 

"  And  freely  ?  " 

"  It  is  pledged  ;  let  that  suffice." 

Left  to  himself,  Henri  de  Lhoeac  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"  I  think,"  said  he,  drawing  his  chair  up  to  the 
writing-table  and  leaning  his  head  upon  a  crook'd 
elbow,  "  that  we  two,  dear  brother  Guy,  are  quits 
at  last.  I  was  as  good  as  dead,  I  had  no  part  or 
lot  in  Lhoeac ;  nay,  I  was  an  outcast  from  its 
borders,  and  kept  beyond  its  bounds  by  a  penalty. 
Well,  there  is  no  pear  so  slow  of  ripening  but  it  falls 
at  the  last.  By  the  Mass  !  but  it  was  harder  to  win 
the  jade  than  I  had  dreamed,  yet  won  she  is,  and 
who  knows  but  I  have  told  her  no  lie.  Let  George 
of  Amboise  see  to  himself !  " 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH. 
I. 

IT  was  a  strange  ceremony  and  such  a  one  as  had 
not  often  been  seen  in  Bordeaux,  the  marriage  of 
Denise  de  Lhoeac  in  Monseigneur's  private  chapel 
that  October  night.  The  celebrant  was  my  Lord 
Bishop  himself,  clad  in  all  the  magnificence  of  his 
official  vestments,  but  for  once  he  served  the  altar 
without  an  acolyte.  His  word  was  pledged  for 
secrecy,  and  save  for  the  presence  of  three  witnesses, 
tried  friends  and  followers,  only  those  concerned 
were  within  the  consecrated  walls.  Therefore,  in 
the  unwonted  emptiness  of  the  church,  and  the 
small  stir  of  life  about  the  altar,  the  scene  was 
strange. 

Strange,  too,  in  its  dimness.  At  such  times  not 
alone  the  church,  but  the  altar  itself,  was  commonly 
a  blaze  of  light,  its  every  candle  lit,  its  every  lamp 
flaming  at  its  highest.  So  was  it  not  now,  but 
rather  as  if  Monseigneur  served  the  awful  office  of 
the  Tenebrae.  From  the  middle  of  the  groined 
roof,  there  being  indeed  one  feeble  spark,  another 
glimmered  through  crimson  glass  before  the  high 
altar,  and  at  either  end  of  the  holy  table  there 
winked  and  guttered  a  solitary  candle.  These  four 
lights  there  were,  these  and  no  more,  and  through 


156  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

the  darkness  they  revealed  the  white  Madonna 
throned  above  the  altar  looking  glimmering  down. 
Scarcely  visible,  as  if  that  which  is  highest  in 
human  love  had  but  small  part  in  that  strange 
union.  But  strangest  of  all  in  those  who  through 
the  shadows  played  their  parts,  themselves  no  more 
than  shadows.  So  dim  and  uncertain  were  they — 
priest,  bridegroom,  bride,  and  witnesses — that  it 
seemed  as  if  the  dead  forerunners  of  my  Lord  Bishop, 
whose  generations  slept  beneath  the  heavy  flags  of 
the  nave,  had  for  one  brief  hour  returned  to  their 
ancient  ministry.  Save  for  the  one  monotonous, 
low  murmuring  voice  the  silence  was  that  of  the 
grave,  nor  was  there  life  or  motion  except  when  the 
priest  moved  here  and  there  in  the  exercise  of  his 
office,  or  as  the  two  masked  figures  before  the  altar 
obeyed  his  whispered  orders.  At  last  even  the 
priest  fell  silent,  kneeling  in  his  place  with  bowed 
head ;  and  all  movement  stayed.  The  ceremony 
was  ended.  In  the  sight  of  God  and  the  church 
Denise  de  Lhoeac  was  Denise  La  Clazonne. 

She  it  was  who  broke  the  hush.  Rising  to  her 
feet,  she  crossed  the  open  space  to  the  altar-rails, 
and  paused  on  the  uppermost  of  the  three  steps  lead- 
ing down  to  the  body  of  the  church,  her  pale  dress 
showing  like  a  faint  grey  blue  against  the  black 
hollow  of  the  nave. 

"  I  have  kept  my  word,  Monseigneur,"  said  she, 
turning  towards  the  two  still  kneeling  figures  as  she 
spoke.  "  Kept  it,  Lhoeac  fashion,  because  I 
pledged  it,  rashly  as  it  now  seems  to  me  in  my  cooler 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  157 

blood,  and  because  the  strait  you  set  me  in  was  too 
hard  forme." 

De  Lhoeac  and  the  newly-made  bridegroom  had 
risen  while  she  spoke,  and  now  the  former  answered 
her  from  where  he  stood,  his  back  to  the  dim 
Madonna  and  his  hand  still  leaning  on  the  holy 
table. 

"  Is  the  truth  less  the  truth  because  your  blood  is 
cold  ?  Is  that  which  you  have  done " 

But  she  raised  a  hand  and  waved  him  into 
silence. 

"  Was  it  the  truth  ?  Hot  blood  proves  it  no  more 
than  cold  blood  gives  it  the  lie.  Was  it  the  truth  ? 
That  is  the  question  that  was  too  hard  for  me  to 
answer.  If  yes,  who  was  I  to  fight  against  God,  and 
what  am  I  or  what  my  life  that  I  should  refuse  it  ? 
But  if  no — if  no — oh !  even  then  I  had  pledged  my 
word,  and — and — the  strait  was  too  hard  for  me. 
There  was  none  to  guide  me.  There  are  times  when 
the  mother  of  God  is  far  off,  and  the  mother  of  life 
would  have  been  so  near." 

"  But " — and  Monseigneur's  voice  took  on  a 
sterner  ring;  the  scene  was  not  to  his  liking  and 
must  be  stopped,  the  more  so  that  in  his  wise 
knowledge  of  human  nature  he  had  not  told  La 
Clazonne  all  the  truth — "am  I  not  your  spiritual 
father  and  your  near  kinsman  ?  Oh !  daughter, 
daughter,  these  doubts  shame  both  yourself  and 
me." 

"  God  forgive  me  if  they  are  wrong,  and  you  if 
they  are  right,"  said  she,  and  her  voice  was  well- 


158  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

nigh  as  st&rn  as  his  own  ;  "  but  that  I  doubt  is  true, 
and  for  the  very  reason  that  doubt  should  be  impos- 
sible. Within  these  last  hours  Roger  Patcham  has 
told  me  that  which  it  had  been  better  he  had  told 
me  earlier,  or  not  at  all;  since  next  to  death  a 
broken  faith  is  the  worst  sorrow  of  life." 

"  Roger  Patcham  !  "  Truly  Monseigneur  was  an 
artist.  From  sorrow  he  had  turned  to  righteous 
anger  and  rebuke,  now  these  were  buried  beneath 
contempt  and  a  cold  scorn  ;  nor  in  any  shift  of 
mood  or  temper  was  the  light  needful.  Even 
through  the  heavy  gloom  his  voice  told  all.  "  Roger 
Patcham  !  And  would  you  set  such  a  one  as  Roger 
Patcham  up  as  a  witness  against  such  a  one  as  I ! 
A  hireling  bully ;  a  roystering,  swearing,  pinch- 
pursed  braggart ;  a  needy,  hungry  adventurer  whose 
enmity  I  earned  a  dozen  years  past  by  warning  him 
that  he  who  robbed  Lhoeac  would  have  more  than 
a  weak  girl  to  deal  with.  Roger  Patcham !  a  churl, 
a  stranger,  and  an  alien  !  Shame,  Denise !  shame  !  I 
say  again." 

But  neither  rebuke  nor  contempt  could  cow  the 
girl  or  turn  her  from  her  purpose. 

"  Roger  Patcham  was  but  the  mouthpiece  of  the 
dead,"  she  answered  without  a  break  in  her  level 
tones,  though  those  who  watched  her  saw  her  hands 
meet  in  a  hard  grip  across  her  breast.  "The  mes- 
sage was  the  message  of  my  grandsire.  Nay,  it 
seemed — but  in  Captain  Patcham  was  not  clear — 
as  if  some  power  higher  and  beyond  this  world  had 
spoken." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  159 

"  Aye,  aye  ;  and  what  was  this  message  ?  " 

"The  sum  of  it  was  this — 

When  priest  or  kin  hath  aught  to  win. 
Then  trust  thou  least  both  kin  and  priest  ; 

and  that " 

"  And  for  that  jingle,"  broke  in  my  Lord  Bishop 
harshly,  squaring  his  still  broad  shoulders  and 
striding  a  pace  or  two  forward  as  he  spoke ;  "  a 
jingle  told  you  by  such  a  man  as  this  Patcham,  you 
would  discredit  Henri  de  Lhoeac,  you  would  brand 
him  as  liar,  cheat,  cozener,  false  servant  of  the  altar 
by  which  he  stands,  and  for  his  own  ends  deceiving 
of  God  and  man  alike !  By  the  Mass !  the  old 
enmity  of  my  brother  Guy  was  but  hidden  skin- 
deep,  and  a  pin-prick  brings  it  to  the  surface.  He 
ever  hated  me,  did  Guy,  and  swore  that  even  from 
the  grave  he  would  strike  me.  But  this  is  that 
wastrel  Patcham's  doing,  not  yours,  and  so  I  pardon 
you." 

"Stranger  and  alien  he  is,  though  no  churl," 
answered  Denise,  taking  a  step  forward  in  her  turn. 
"If  every  Frenchman  were  as  true  a  man  as  Roger 
Patcham,  then  might  France  in  her  self-reliance  face 
Spain,  England,  and  the  Emperor  with  a  quiet  heart. 
More  than  that :  this  hireling  bully  and  needy 
adventurer,  this  roystering  pinch-pursed  braggart, 
is  so  nice  a  gentleman  that  even  in  his  hate,  if  hate 
there  is,  he  has  never  slandered  his  enemy.  Not 
even  to-night  did  he  do  more  than  bid  me  think 
twice  before  I  stretched  my  handout  further  than  I 
could  draw  it  back  ;  and  when  I  asked  him  why,  he 


160  'THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

stammered,  gnawed  his  lip,  and  at  the  last  quoted 
the  rhyme  I  tell  you.  But  not  from  himself.  '  'Twas 
one,'  he  said,  '  wrote  it  for  the  old  Seigneur  on  a  tag 
of  parchment  twenty  years  ago  and  before  even  I 
knewLhoeac!'  A  bully  ?  A  wastrel?  May  God 
in  His  grace  ever  send  for  the  safe  keeping  of  Lhoeac 
such  a  hireling  rogue  as  Roger  Patcham." 

Do  what  she  would,  and  it  was  clear  she  set  a  curb 
upon  herself,  the  level  voice  was  vibrating  with 
passion  before  she  ended.  Her  own  fears  and 
doubts  she  could  hold  in  check,  but  to  hear  the  man 
belittled  who  had  nourished  both  her  and  Lhoeac 
was  more  than  she  could  abide  in  patience.  For  all 
his  knowledge  of  men  and  women  Monseigneur  had 
not  calculated  well  when  he  derided  Roger  Patcham 
to  Denise  de  Lhoeac. 

"  All  this,"  she  went  on,  with  a  gesture  towards 
that  other  and  hitherto  silent  shadow  who  made  the 
third  upon  the  raised  level  of  the  altar  steps,  "has 
a  meaning  for  you,  Monsieur  La  Clazonne,  as  it  has 
for  my  Lord  Bishop.  If  I  have  been  cajoled — oh, 
your  pardon,  Monseigneur,  your  pardon,  I  say  no 
more  than  if,  and  by  Saint  Agnes  of  Lhoeac,  the 
power  of  that  if  grows  with  the  moments  whether 
I  will  or  no — if  I  have  been  cajoled,  let  no  man  try 
a  second  lure,  or  seek  to  break  by  a  hairs-breadth 
the  conditions  I  have  made.  If  I  have  kept  my 
word — and  have  I  not  kept  it? — you,  Monsieur, 
must  keep  yours.  Never,  come  what  may,  can  you 
expect  more  than  I  have  vowed.  Nay,  my  very 
vow  comes  between." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH  161 

"  Madame,"  and  even  with  all  her  preoccupation 
Denise  could  not  but  note  that  Giles  La  Clazonne 
had  a  pleasant  voice,  "  in  these  few  minutes  I  have 
learned  more  than  I  was  meant  to  learn,  and  it  is 
borne  in  upon  me  that  in  this  thing  there  has  been 
more  than  one  cat's  paw.  My  Lord  Bishop  is  a 
bold  player.  It  is  a  month  since  Monsieur  de  Saint- 
Seurin  broached  this  alliance,  and  half  that  time 
since  he  bade  me  to  come  to  Bordeaux  for  its 
further  consideration  and  final  adjustment.  Once 
here " 

"  Chut,  chut ! "  broke  in  Monseigneur  im- 
patiently ;  "  the  thing  is  done,  and  all  this  talk  is 
so  much  wind,  for  is  there  one  of  us  all  would  wish 
it  undone  ?  " 

"  A  month  since?  "  answered  Denise,  not  heeding 
the  interruption,  but  speaking  rather  as  if  she  and 
Giles  La  Clazonne  were  alone  in  the  dim  church. 
"  I  see,  I  see :  that  was  when  I  consented  to  join 
him  here.  Yes,  Monsieur?" 

"  Once  here,  Madame,  and  we  had  met,"  and 
through  the  gloom  she  could  see  La  Clazonne  bow  ; 
"  the  importunity  was  on  my  side,  and  not  on 
his." 

"Ah?  so  we  have  met,  Monsieur?" 

"  Five  times,  Madame,  and  each  time  you  did  me 
the  honour  to  be  well  enough  content." 

"I,  Monsieur?  I?  By  Our  Lady  above  us  there, 
it  is  simple  truth  that  I  never  so  much  as  saw  you. 
Though  by  that  I  mean  you  no  discourtesy." 

"That  was  my  folly,  Madame,  and  finely  it  has 


162  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

been  punished.  I  should  have  known  I  was  no 
match  for  such  as  you.  But  what  would  you  have  ? 
Youth  is  vain  and  foolish  ;  besides,  he  was  your 
uncle  and  God's  priest.  Besides  again,  it  is  easy  to 
believe  that  which  we  desire  to  believe." 

"Yes,  Monsieur."  Her  voice  was  softer  now, 
softer  than  it  had  been  since  she  had  halted  at  the 
altar-stairs  and  turned  upon  them  both.  "  What 
next  ?  " 

"  You  had  your  whim,  Madame,  but  no  more  than 
was  your  right  as  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  all 
Bordeaux,  and  the  sweetest.  The  foolishness  was 
mine  not  to  recognise  they  were  a  travesty  and  a 
lie.  '  She  is  country-bred  and  shy,'  said  Mon- 
seigneur.  '  She  likes  you  well  enough,  better  than 
you  suppose,  but  will  have  no  closer  acquaintance 
lest  gossips  talk.  They  are  unaccustomed  to  lovers 
on  the  slopes  of  Lhoeac.  Wait,  better  things  will 
come  presently.'  And  I  waited,  Madame :  I  would 
have  waited  seven  years.  This  came  this  afternoon. 
'  Who  would  have  thought  the  wench  was  so 
romantic  ? '  said  Monseigneur.  '  It  must  be  the 
Italian  blood  in  her  ;  we  Lhoeacs  are  more  prosaic. 
She  wants  this,  she  wants  that,  she  wants  the  other, 
but  she  will  marry  you  all  the  same!  and  I — oh, 
Madame,  I  dared  to  hope  that  these  were  no  more 
than  girlish  trials  of  my  love — whims  borne  of  some 
romance  of  ancient  chivalry ;  and  that,  having 
proved  me  knightly— " 

"  I  will  tell  you  God's  truth.  I  never  so  much 
as  heard  your  name  until  to-day,  Monsieur  la 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  163 

Clazonne,  except  as  a  neighbour  of  Lhoeac,  and 
then  only  as  one  might  talk  of  a  cattle-herder  or  a 
burner  of  charcoal ;  therefore  spare  me  your  pro- 
testations. My  conditions  stand." 

"  Have  I  sought  to  shift  them,  Madame?  Have 
I  by  a  hairs-breadth  crossed  the  lines  that  you  your- 
self laid  down?  Let  your  conditions  stand.  I 
am  content  to  wait.  At  least  you  cannot  take  hope 
from  me." 

"  No,  Monsieur,  nor  give  you  hope.  Hope  ?  " 
she  went  on  bitterly;  "Monsieur  de  Lhoeac  has 
murdered  hope,  and  it  is  God's  mercy  if  faith  has 
not  gone  shipwreck  too.  Oh  !  you  men — you  ruth- 
less, callous,  calculating  men,  who  care  not  what 
you  trample  under  foot  if  but  your  goals  are  reached 
— have  you  no  fear  of  God  ?  " 

"  Madame,  believe  me " 

"  Monsieur,  have  done  with  Madames  ;  they  are 
an  offence  to  me — they  suggest  a  claim  which  I  re- 
fuse to  honour,  and  will  refuse.  Saving  for  the 
ring  that  plighted  troth — the  ring  that  went  from 
Lhoeac  in  disaster  and  came  back  by  chance,  and 
has  now  gone  in  what  I  pray  God  is  not  worse 
disaster — I  am  Mademoiselle  de  Lhoeac,  and  never 
can  or  will  be  more.  My  conditions  stand." 

But  not  knowing  her  man,  and  full  only  of  her 
own  resentment,  she  had  pricked  La  Clazonne  in 
temper  and  pride  alike. 

"  What  ?  "  cried  he,  striding  forward  and  facing 
her  with  his  hands  upon  his  hips,  a  broad  pillar  of 
blackness  in  the  flickering  candle-light ;  "  is  all  the 


164  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

wrong  one  way  ?  Fair  and  sweet  you  are,  God 
knows.  God  knows,  too,  that  I  loved  you  for  your 
gracious  womanliness  without  so  much  as  speech 
passing  between  us,  which  perhaps  argues  me 
something  of  the  fool  but  nothing  of  the  villain  ; 
but  that  Giles  laClazonnk  should  give  Mademoiselle 
de  Lhoeac  the  right  to  be  called  Madame  is  not  a 
thing  for  scorn  or  contempt  even  though  his  love 
came  unwished  for.  That  you  hold  Lhoeac  sacred 
is  well,  but  have  I  no  pride  in  Clazonn£  ?  For  more 
generations  than  I  have  fingers  we  have  dwelt  there, 
and  I  am  the  last  of  my  race.  Is  it  no  grief  to  see 
the  old  line  end  in  me,  and  all  for  a  priest's  lies  ? 
Let  your  conditions  stand.  Who  sought  to  break 
them  ?  Not  I,  Madame ;  not  I.  Is  it  your  folly  to 
think  that  a  man,  because  he  is  a  man,  can  respect 
neither  himself  nor  his  word?  Oh,  we  are  not  all 
Henri  de  Lhoeacs  nor  brute  beasts  !  See,"  and  he 
turned  towards  the  altar.  "  There,  through  the 
gloom,  the  calm,  pitying  Christ  looks  down  upon 
this  troubled  world.  Darkness  is  about  Him,  and 
faith  alone  it  is  that  clearly  knows  Him  there. 
Madame,  by  that  sorrowful  Christ  I  swear  that  my 
will  and  oath  are  as  strong  and  pure  as  yours. 
Until  the  day  breaks  for  us — as  break  it  shall — and 
dimness  and  distrust  are  done  with,  I  hold  to  your 
conditions.  God  send  the  day  !  even  as  He  sends 
the  dawn  to  show  the  pity,  love,  and  blessing  of 
that  face  full  in  the  smile  of  the  world." 

That  ended  it.     Round  swept  Denise,  awestruck 
in  spite  of   herself  and    not  a  little    shamed,    and 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  165 

through  the  darkness  they  could  hear  the  click  of 
her  heels  and  the  swish  of  her  trailing  draperies 
upon  the  flagging.  Then  came  the  soft  clap  of  a 
padded  door  shutting  to  its  spring  at  the  further 
end  of  the  church.  By  the  same  road,  when  an 
interval  had  elapsed,  went  La  Clazonne.  As  for 
Monseigneur,  he  passed  behind  the  altar,  through 
the  choir,  and  out  into  his  sanctity's  disrobing- 
room.  Thence  there  was  a  private  passage  to  his 
own  apartments,  and  there  he  sat  for  a  full  hour 
staring,  chin  on  breast,  into  the  warm-ashes  of  the 
dead  fire.  At  last  he  rose,  and  the  sum  of  his 
thoughts  was  this :  there  was  never  a  bird  yet  but 
had  to  chip  its  shell  before  it  could  sing.  For  his 
old  sake  and  the  glory  of  the  kinship  old  La  Cla- 
zonne will  keep  to  his  pact.  The  rest  is  my  affair : 
Lhoeac  is  lost,  but  its  losing  makes  me  Cardinal. 

The  day  that  followed  saw  Roger  Patcham's 
puzzlement  as  to  women's  ways  grow  deeper  than 
ever.  For  no  reason,  hinted,  spoken,  or  shadowed, 
and  with  not  so  much  as  four-and-twenty  hours' 
delay,  Denise  would  have  it  that  she  must  return  to 
Lhoeac;  but  it  was  at  least  comforting  that  eight 
thousand  crowns  contented  Monseigneur.  After 
all,  though  it  was  not  every  one  who  found  it  out, 
my  Lord  Bishop  has  something  of  a  conscience. 

II. 

Neither  then  nor  after  could  Roger  Patcham 
fathom  how  two  weeks  had  worked  such  a  change 
in  Denise.  The  day  she  first  rode  under  the  broad 


166  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

gateway  of  the  Salinieres  she  was  no  more  than  a 
child  for  all  her  grown  womanhood  and  twenty 
years  of  life — a  child  in  her  frank  irresponsibility, 
her  ready,  careless  sunshine,  her  unwearied  and 
cheery  optimism.  For  surely  the  stamp  of  a  child, 
let  its  age  be  what  it  may,  is  that  it  Lives  in  and  for 
the  day,  sucking  its  blessing  as  a  bee  does  honey, 
and  leaves  the  morrow  to  take  care  of  the  things  of 
itself.  No  more  than  fourteen  days  passed  before 
she  again  rode  through  the  time-worn  arch,  and  yet 
the  child  had  become  a  grave  and  sweet-faced 
woman,  deep-eyed,  serious,  and  with  laughter  rarely 
on  her  lips  ;  silent,  too,  beyond  common  ;  and  in 
the  trouble  of  his  heart  Roger  marvelled  at  the 
change,  nor  could  the  memory  of  the  eight  thou- 
sand crowns  saved  to  Lhoeac  wholly  comfort  him. 

For  the  most  part  it  was  a  dull  ride  south.  The 
quips  and  jests,  the  light  talk  of  a  strange,  new 
world  that  danced  the  long  day  through,  and  half 
the  night,  on  tip-toe ;  of  lovers  to  be  schooled  and 
scorned  ;  of  worldly  wit  and  saintly  wisdom  ;  talk 
part  earnest  and  part  pure  gaiety  of  youth ;  and 
which  had  been  the  girl's  chatter  as  she  rode  north, 
was  at  an  end.  All  that  was  done  with — quips, 
jests,  and  talk  were  as  dead  as  the  last  year's  small 
ale.  Twice  honest  Roger  trailed  a  hook,  but  no 
fish  bit,  nor  even  rippled  the  surface  with  a  passing 
snap  at  the  bait. 

"  That  second  gathering  at  my  Lord  Bishop's," 
said  he,  with  a  shake  of  the  head  and  watching  her 
out  of  the  tail  of  his  eyes.  "  Its  music,  satins,  silks, 


THE    HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  167 

its  wondrous  play  of  colour,  the  babble  and  the 
laughter,  the  warm  air  blown  with  perfume  and 
alive  with  wit — truly,  Mademoiselle,  that  was  a 
sight  and  a  hearing  to  stick  in  a  man's  memory." 

"Aye,"  answered  she,  "a  pretty  sight  enough. 
We  dine  at  Bazas,  do  we  not  ?  " 

Nor  did  his  second  cast  of  the  line  fare  better. 

41  Some  men  love  Paris,"  said  he,  speaking 
abruptly  out  of  an  awkward,  long-drawn  silence,  as 
shy  men  will,  and  not  always  please  themselves  or 
their  hearers;  "  but  give  me  Bordeaux.  The  long, 
grey  walls,  the  busy  quays,  and  that  broad 
stretch  of  shining  river  make  a  bonny  picture." 

44  Bordeaux  !  "  and  her  mouth  hardened.  44  Lhoeac 
is  worth  ten  Bordeauxs.  See,  they  have  halted 
there  behind  us.  I  think,  Father  Roger,  that  Ma- 
dame Catherine  is  in  trouble  with  her  stirrup-shoe." 

Once  she  reached  Lhoeac,  it  was  soon  clear  to 
more  than  Captain  Roger  that  a  new  order  of 
things  had  begun.  Not  again  would  it  be  in  the 
power  of  Monsieur  de  Saint-Seurin  to  throw  in  his 
face  the  sarcasm  that  he  had  played  the  Seigneur 
nobly  !  Thenceforward  Denise  de  Lhoeac  was 
Suzeraine  and  she  alone.  Not  that  she  meddled 
with  the  guards,  or  the  keeping  of  the  peace  within 
her  borders — that  was  man's  work ;  and  in  her 
twenty  years  of  child's  life  her  ears  and  eyes  had 
been  open  for  all  her  careless  ways,  and  she  had 
sucked  in  the  wisdom  of  leaving  every  tool  to  do 
its  fitting  labour.  But  little  by  little  the  reins  of 
control  were  gathered  into  her  fingers,  and  inside 


168  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

of  six  months  there  was  not  throughout  the  Seig- 
neurie  a  barn  burnt,  a  thief  hung,  a  beggar  set  in 
the  stocks  but  Denise  de  Lhoeac  knew  the  reason 
why  ;  little  by  little,  firmly  and  yet  by  such  gentle, 
slow  degrees,  that  neither  Roger  Patcham,  Madame 
Catherine,  nor  any  one  in  authority  was  grudgingly 
conscious  of  the  loss  of  power. 

For  Roger  Patcham,  and  in  all  things  that 
touched  the  vassals  of  Lhoeac — their  needs,  their 
troubles,  their  shiftless,  turbulent  ways — she  was 
the  master,  ignorant,  but  shrewd  and  grave-minded, 
reckoning  the  spirit  of  an  act  to  be  more  than  the 
act  itself,  and  mending  her  ignorance  fast.  With 
Madame  Catherine  and  her  maids  within  doors  she 
was  the  gentle,  tolerant,  even-handed  mistress: 
wisely  blind  at  times,  but  not  over-blind ;  and 
within  and  without  there  were  few  but  in  the  end — 
and  an  end  not  far  to  reach — came  to  love  and 
trust  Mamzelle  Denise.  Thus  it  was  that  in  three 
years  she  grew  into  the  life  of  Lhoeac — grew  into 
it  so  that  she  was  the  life  of  Lhoeac,  and  so  could 
the  better  cope  with  the  sore  trouble  that  presently 
fell  upon  the  Seigneurie. 

But,  woman-like,  and  being  wrapped  as  she  was 
in  all  .that  lay  nearest  to  her,  the  events  of  the 
wider  world  touched  her  not  at  all,  or  at  best  but 
little.  When  news  came  with  a  bustle,  as  it  did 
in  the  early  summer  of  the  next  year,  that  Mon- 
seigneur  was  now  red-hatted  and  "  His  Eminence," 
she  merely  set  down  her  work  in  her  lap  and 
looked  Patcham  thoughtfully  in  the  face. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  169 

"  So  he  has  won  the  next  trick  in  the  game,  as 
he  said  he  would  !  but  even  though  he  clears  the 
board,  can  a  thistle  bear  figs  or  a  thorn  grapes?" 

Which  was  as  so  much  monkish  Latin  to  Father 
Roger. 

Even  the  stir  and  ferment  caused  by  the  King's 
disastrous  second  Italian  war  in  no  way  moved 
her,  but  when  the  rumour  that  Alexander  Borgia 
had  drunk  the  bitter  drink  of  her  own  brewing  and 
so  fallen  into  the  trap  he  had  set  for  others  grew 
to  truth,  she  again  puzzled  Captain  Patcham. 

"Then  the  sword  has  fallen?  Truly  my  uncle 
is  a  wise  man !  If  he  were  but  as  honest  as  he  is 
clear-sighted,  he  would  go  far.  Now  we  shall  see 
if  God  has  indeed  pardoned  the  church,  or  if  for  its 
sins  He  will  give  it  over  afresh  to  the  spoiler.  If 
He  does,  then  truly  the  latter  end  will  be  worse 
than  the  first." 

But  Julian  della  Rovere  ascended  the  throne  of 
Saint  Peter,  and  in  spite  of  all  his  intrigues  Henri 
de  Lhoeac  remained  at  Bordeaux.  This  time  there 
was  no  Philip  the  Fair  to  play  Pope-maker. 

Isolated,  therefore,  and  world-forgetting  as 
Lhoeac  was,  the  near  trivial  raised  a  louder  buzz  of 
gossip,  and  stirred  its  interest  deeper,  than  any  re- 
mote catastrophe  ;  and  the  return  of  Jean  Tron  to 
Saint  Agnes  was  a  greater  event  to  the  Seigneurie 
than  the  defeat  of  La  Tremoille  at  the  Garigliano. 
\\liy  not?  A  few  hundred  Frenchmen  more  or 
less  mattered  nothing  to  Lhoeac,  but  every  soul 
within  its  four  corners  felt  a  reflected  impotence 


i/o  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

because  of  Jean  Tron's  six  months'  pirating  along 
the  Portuguese  coast ;  they  were  not  wont  to  go 
far  afield,  these  good  folks  of  Lhoeac,  and  to  them 
the  sea  was  a  fearsome  thing ! 

Saint  Agnes,  therefore,  in  its  pride  and  fulness 
of  heart,  welcomed  its  returned  hero  with  such  an 
overflowing  and  liquid  hospitality  as  stretched 
three-fourths  of  its  men  groaning  on  their  straw 
for  the  entire  of  the  next  day.  Amongst  these, 
as  was  natural,  was  Jean  Tron.  Had  he  not  to 
tell  his  tale  a  score  of  times,  adding  a  larger,  richer, 
and  more  gaudy  amplitude  with  each  telling,  and 
was  not  talking  drouthy  work  ?  Was  he  not,  too, 
but  three  days  from  a  service  where  none  dared  get 
honestly  drunk  because  of  the  unreasoning  tem- 
per of  the  patron  ?  But  whereas  the  rest  of  Saint 
Agnes  came,  in  the  accustomed  course  and  ac- 
cording to  common  and  established  rule,  slowly 
back  to  life  and  temporary  repentance,  Jean  Tron 
woke  to  a  fever  that  set  his  tongue  clacking 
sea-tales,  the  lurid  particularity  and  naked  frank- 
ness of  which  drove  even  the  stolid  women  of  the 
village  from  his  room,  white-faced  and  trembling, 
though  the  Guiennese  of  that  generation  were  not 
a  squeamish  race. 

For  three  days  he  lay  mumbling  and  tossing, 
groaning  piteously  at  times,  now  for  his  soul's 
health,  now  for  his  body,  and  both  .body  and  soul 
grievously  sick:  his  lolling  tongue  brown  and  dry, 
his  face  white  and  red  by  turns,  while  upon  his 
lips  and  gums,  and  even  teeth,  there  came  a  strange 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  171 

growth,  in  appearance  like  a  dark  fur,  a  growth 
such  as  not  even  the  wisest  witch-wench  in  all  the 
village  had  ever  set  eyes  on.  More  than  ever, 
and  none  the  less  because  of  the  broken  tales  that 
set  men  nudging,  Jean  Tron  was  a  marvel,  and  in 
these  three  days  there  was  not  so  much  as  a  babe 
in  all  Saint  Agnes  that  had  not  stared  its  fill  at 
him.  Then  the  marvel  failed,  though  the  staring 
went  on  as  hard  as  ever,  for  on  the  third  day  from 
his  feasting  Jean  Tron  died. 

That  the  traveller's  return,  and  the  story  of  his 
reception  with  its  revelry  of  swinish  drunkenness, 
should  be  reported  to  Roger  Patcham  was  a  thing 
of  course.  Of  the  former  he  took  note,  intending 
presently  to  send  for  the  man  and  question  him, 
since  of  tales  of  adventure  Roger  Patcham  was 
still  as  greedy  as  a  boy,  but  the  latter  he  heeded 
not  at  all.  A  merry  heart  pays  its  dues  without 
grumbling ;  why  should  Saint  Agnes  not  make  a 
beast  of  itself  its  own  way  if  it  chose  ?  Its  carous- 
ings  were  no  affair  of  his.  But  when  on  the  third 
day  Jean  Tron  died  without  coming  again  to 
sober  speech  it  was  another  matter.  Strong  drink 
might  give  a  man  an  aching  head  and  a  troubled 
conscience,  though  more  of  one  than  the  other, 
but  never  yet  within  the  memory  of  tradition  had 
it  killed  a  peasant  of  Saint  Agnes,  least  of  all 
could  it  kill  such  a  hard-bitten  fellow  as  this  Jean 
Tron.  Doubtless  the  rogue's  pockets  were  not 
empty,  and  the  thing  must  be  looked  to,  lest  there 
had  been  foul  play. 


172  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

Down  the  slope  from  the  Chateau  rode  Captain 
Roger  with  three  of  Lhoeac's  men  behind  him, 
down  the  slope,  under  the  edge  of  the  wood,  round 
by  the  Rocks  of  the  Bears,  across  the  river,  and 
in  between  the  straggling  rows  of  huddled  houses. 
It  was  early  June ;  the  three  days'  wonder  was 
dead,  and  work  was  plenty  in  the  fields.  The 
village,  therefore,  was  empty  except  for  its  stray 
dogs  and  litter  of  brawling  children.  Death  was 
no  such  strange  thing  in  Saint  Agnes  that  any 
should  go  softly,  or  abate  a  jot  of  the  joys  of  life 
because  of  it. 

At  the  widow  Tron's  door  Patcham  dismounted, 
and  bidding  one  of  his  men  follow  him,  he  left  their 
horses  in  the  care  of  the  other  two.  Here,  again, 
there  was  no  need  for  ceremony.  Death  was  so 
frank  a  visitor  that  punctilio  was  uncalled  for,  and 
besides,  it  would  have  been  a  strange  thing  had 
there  been  a  house  in  all  Lhoeac  that,  by  day  or  by 
night,  would  have  kept  its  latch  clicked  against 
Captain  Roger.  Pushing  open  the  door,  the  two 
entered  the  cottage,  a  typical  narrow-windowed, 
dingy,  two-roomed  hovel,  reeking  full  with  a  dozen 
evil-smelling  abominations,  and,  guided  by  a  mur- 
mur of  voices,  turned  to  the  left  through  a  break 
in  the  wall :  inner  door  or  dividing  curtain  there 
was  none. 

On  the  straw  in  the  corner,  a  coverlid  of  sacking 
tucked  to  his  chin  and  his  living  clothes  propping 
his  head,  lay  Jean  Tron  staring  blindly  at  the  ribbon 
of  sky  showing  through  the  narrow  slit  of  window 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  173 

fronting  him.  It  was  as  if  in  quitting  the  world  he 
looked  to  the  last  at  the  sunshine  he  had  loved  so 
well,  and  no  one  had  had  the  heart  to  set  the  ferry- 
man's fee  upon  his  lids  to  shut  out  the  sight.  Bend- 
ing over  him,  chattering  and  full  of  the  importance 
of  their  dreary  business,  were  three  crones,  the 
village  dressers  of  the  dead. 

At  Roger  Patcham's  entrance  their  gossip  ceased, 
and  of  their  presence  he  made  short  work.  The 
gropings  of  justice  were  not  for  the  common  gaze, 
and  his  line  of  questioning  would  depend  on  what 
he  found. 

"  Let  the  man  bide  as  he  is,  and  get  you  gone 
for  to-day,"  he  said  roughly,  checking  one  of  them 
as  she  stooped  to  draw  aside  the  covering.  "  Has 
monk  or  leech  seen  to  him  ?" 

"  Small  use  for  a  leech,  Messire,"  answered  one. 
"  Trust  my  word  for  that.  Eight-and-sixty  have  I 
put  through  my  hands,  old  and  young,  and  the  signs 
are  clear.  D'ye  see  the  blue  at  the  root  of  the— 

"  I  have  eyes,  woman,  I  have  eyes  ;  quit  chatter. 
The  question  is  not  if  the  man  is  dead — a  three-year 
child  could  see  that — but  how  he  died.  What  of  a 
friar  as  night-watcher  ?  " 

"  The  man's  mother,  Marie  Tron,  has  gone  to 
Saint  Joseph's,  Messire,  and  heart-broken  she  is. 
Beyond  a  crown  he  had  in  his  pocket  there  is 
nought  to  show  for  his  six  months'  voyaging.  What 
comes  by  rapine  goes  by  ruin's  a  true  proverb.  A 
corpse  in  a  body's  house  is  dear  bought  at  a  crown 
with  the  dues  of  the  church  to  pay." 


174  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  What  ?  No  more  than  that  ?  "  cried  Roger,  all 
his  suspicions  roused  afresh. 

"  Not  a  denier  more,  Messire." 

"  Well,  begone.  Now,  Martin,"  he  went  on  as 
the  women  shuffled  out,  grumbling  amongst  them- 
selves. "  Fling  the  sacking  off  him  and  have  him 
nearer  to  the  light,  that  we  may  see  what  manner 
of  tale  his  body  hath  to  tell.  So  ;  sideways  a  little : 

now  lift  his  left  arm  lest  there  was  a Saints  in 

heaven  !  Drop  him,  man !  drop  him  and  stand 
back  !  Back  I  say,  back,  further,  further !  Lord 
God !  what  evil  has  Lhoeac  done  that  this  should 
come  upon  us." 

For  all  the  crone's  handling  of  eight-and-sixty 
poor  shells  of  outworn  humanity,  Roger  Patcham's 
experience  was  as  wide  as  hers.  Death  by  adven- 
ture and  misadventure — disease,  accident,  and  the 
long  course  of  nature,  by  flood,  by  field,  and  by  fire- 
side— was  familiar  to  him.  He  had,  therefore, 
lounged  against  the  wall  with  his  hands  lapped 
carelessly  behind  his  back  while  the  man-at-arms 
went  about  his  gruesome  work,  following  his  instruc- 
tions methodically  and  without  a  qualm.  But  as 
the  daylight  struck  into  the  armpit  Patcham  started 
and  bent  forward,  his  easy-going,  half-negligent 
watchfulness  banished  on  the  instant,  and  with  it 
the  healthy  freshness  from  his  face.  Then,  as  the 
other,  startled  and  confused  by  the  sudden  out- 
burst and  sharp  insistence,  drew  back,  dropping  the 
arm  with  a  thud  upon  the  floor,  the  Englishman 
clapped  his  hand  over  mouth  and  nostrils  and  bent 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  175 

Icnver,  warily  inching  forward  a  foot  or  two.  What 
he  saw  was  enough,  and  past  argument.  The 
plague  was  in  Lhoeac,  and  all  Saint  Agnes  had  as 
good  as  taken  it  to  its  arms. 

Drawing  back  to  the  wall  again,  he  stood  staring 
at  Jean  Tron,  silent  and  puzzled.  To  do  him  jus- 
tice, after  the  first  involuntary  repulsion,  he  gave 
but  little  thought  to  his  own  risks,  but  how  to  act 
for  the  good  of  Lhoeac  and  the  protection  of  Mam- 
zelle  Denise  troubled  him  sorely.  There  seemed 
but  two  courses  possible,  and  scant  time  to  choose 
between  them.  Any  fool  could  cry,  "  Plague, 
plague  !  "  and  so  drive  other  fools  to  their  death  in 
hot  haste,  since  blind  terror  is  the  plague's  surest 
seed-bed.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  let  him  hold  his 
peace  and  leave  that  ghastly  thing  staring  at  him 
from  the  floor  to  all  the  frank  and  callous  horrors 
of  a  peasant  lying  in  state,  that  one  period  of  a 
man's  supreme  importance,  for  then,  and  then  only 
in  all  his  toilsome  years,  is  he  the  one  centre  of 
interest,  and  the  contagion  would  spread  like  a  May 
mildew  among  vines.  In  the  end  he  did  what  half 
the  world  does  in  a  crisis — he  compromised. 

Turning  abruptly,  he  motioned  to  the  man-at-arms 
to  precede  him  from  the  house.  Once  out  in  the 
sunshine,  he  drew  the  door  after  him,  closing  it  with 
a  crash  that  in  its  brutal  carelessness  was  just  a 
thought  over-acted,  and  walked  leisurely  down  the 
short  distance  separating  the  cottage  from  the  road- 
way, and  climbed  up  into  his  saddle  with  what  he 
was  conscious  was  ostentatious  deliberation. 


176  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  Do  you,"  said  he  to  the  other  two  who  had 
waited  without,  "  keep  watch  here  and  see  that  no 
one  enters.  When  the  widow  Tron  returns  bid  her 
lock  the  door  and  give  you  the  key.  She  must  sleep 
elsewhere  to-night.  The  monk  can  asperge  the 
corpse  and  say  his  orisons  to-morrow.  The  key 
you  will  bring  to  the  Chateau.  And,  mark  this, 
when  I  say  no  one,  I  mean  no  one.  Is  that  clear? 
The  main  point  is  that  Jean  Tron  bides  alone  until 
to-morrow." 

"  Then  perhaps  it  were  better  that  we  kept  watch, 
one  here  and  one  behind  ?  " 

"  And  spoil  all  by  having  fifty  fools  agape  ?  No, 
do  as  you  are  bid,  neither  more  nor  less,  and 
remember  that  a  silent  tongue  breaks  no  teeth. 
Martin,  do  you  ride  with  me." 

Very  slowly  they  jogged  homewards  through  the 
afternoon  heat,  and  presently — though  Roger 
Patcham  was  a  very  burr  at  times  for  roughness — 
Martin's  teeth  of  curiosity  grew  intolerable. 

"  D'ye  think,"  said  he,  ranging  up  alongside  his 
captain,  "that  the  poor  wretch  had  foul  play?" 

"  That,"  answered  Roger,  with  a  sober  shake  of  his 
head,  "  we  shall  see  for  ourselves  to-morrow.  Till 
then  there  is  good  reason  to  walk  softly  and  say 
little." 

But  on  the  morrow  Jean  Tron  told  no  tales, 
neither  of  plague  nor  of  foul  play,  nor  were  ever 
orisons  said  by  his  bier.  In  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning — how,  none  knew,  unless  it  were  the  devil 
had  come  for  his  own — the  hovel,  a  crazy  thing  of 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  177 

tinder-dry  thatch  or  rotten  wood,  went  up  in  fire  ; 
and  though  Roger  Patcham  was  on  the  scene  before 
even  Saint  Agnes  was  well  awake,  there  was  not  so 
much  as  the  great  pot  saved  from  the  ruin. 

III. 

But  to  go  back  a  few  hours.  Captain  Patcham 
did  not  dismount  at  the  great  door  as  was  his  wont, 
but  rode  round  to  a  small  postern  that  admitted 
directly  to  the  stabling.  There  he  threw  Martin  the 
reins,  and,  bidding  him  spread  no  rumours  lest  they 
should  prove  a  lie,  betook  himself  secretly  to  his  own 
quarters,  where  by  change  of  clothing  and  such  like 
precautions  he  got  rid  of  contagion  as  best  he  could. 
Martin  and  his  fellows  might  take  their  chance — he 
had  Mamzelle  Denise  to  see  to,  and  could  afford  no 
risks. 

To  his  mind  her  course  was  plain.  She  must  quit 
Lhoeac,  and  at  once.  Now  was  the  time  to  claim 
from  Madame  Carlo  Perego  some  return  for  having 
so  frankly  helped  her  to  a  husband,  and  that  Caterina 
would  give  Denise  an  asylum  for  as  long  as  she 
chose  to  seek  it  he  made  no  doubt.  That  Denise 
must  be  told  the  why  and  wherefore  of  the  sudden 
shift  was  a  thing  of  course ;  she  was  no  longer  a 
puppet  to  dance  to  another's  finger-strings  without 
a  reason.  So,  having  lured  her  away  from  where 
she  sat  a  housewife  amongst  her  maids,  he  told  her 
shortly  all  that  it  behoved  her  to  know  of  the  tale  of 
Jean  Tron. 

That  her  face  paled  as  she  listened  was  no  shame 


178  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

to  her.  The  scar  left  on  France  by  the  plague-spot, 
when  as  many  as  forty  thousand  died  in  Paris  alone, 
was  no  more  than  healed  ;  and  as  the  tale  went  on 
her  breath  came  in  deep  chest-draughts,  and  Roger 
could  see  her  hands  clench  till  the  nails  must  have 
almost  bitten  through  the  skin  of  the  palms. 

"  And  so,"  he  ended,  "  the  seed  is  sown,  and  God 
alone  knows  what  the  harvest  shall  be.  That  Saint 
Agnes  is  ripe  for  the  reaping  is  past  crying  over,  and 
is  true  of  all  Guienne,  or  of  all  France  for  the  matter 
of  that ;  but  if  every  house  is  like  Marie  Tron's,  the 
pest  will  run  through  the  poor  souls  like  rot  through 
sheep.  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost,  Mademoiselle ; 
by  this  hour  to-morrow  you  must  be  ten  leagues 
away,  nor  need  you  think  to  see  Lhoeac  again  until 
after  the  frosts." 

"  But,"  after  the  first  sound  and  she  had  to  stop 
speech  to  control  the  quivering  of  her  lips  before  she 
could  complete  her  words,  "  is  the  thing  certain  ? 
Think,  Roger,  think  ;  is  there  no  hope  ?  May  it  not 
be  a — a — mistake?" 

"  Neither  mistake  nor  hope,"  he  answered  bluntly 
and  with  emphasis,  since  the  truth  was  not  alone 
kindest,  but  safest.  "  Put  all  thought  of  both  from 
you.  God  forbid  that  I  should  tell  you  all  I  saw 
and  the  rotting  horror  of  it.  The  plague's  in  Lhoeac 
as  sure  as  Jean  Tron's  dead." 

"  My  people,  Roger,  my  people.  Oh  God  !  have 
mercy  on  my  people  !  " 

"  Your  people  must  fend  for  themselves,  Made- 
moiselle, and  I  think  that  when  once  the  terror  grips 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  179 

them  the  end  won't  be  long,  and  grip  them  it  will. 
That  is  the  curse  of  your  peasant ;  he  has  no  more 
spirit  than  a  sick  cat.  Perhaps  it  is  better  so  ;  it 
will  be  the  sooner  over,  but  while  it  lasts  Lhoeac 
will  be  a — but  that's  not  the  point.  The  point  is 
that  you  and  Madame  Catherine  must  make  haste 
and  begone." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  with  her  eyes  on  his  face,  and 
speaking  slowly  as  one  whose  thought  was  busy, 
"  yes,  ma  mie  Maman  must  go.  And  you,  Father 
Roger?  " 

"  Oh,  I  ?  Michel  Roux  can  be  trusted  to  see  you 
safe.  There  are  men  enough  for  a  guard.  My  work 
lies  here." 

"And  tell  me  this,  Father  Roger,"  said  she  softly, 
"  where  does  my  work  lie  ?  " 

Roger  Patcham  drew  himself  up  with  a  start. 
That  there  could  be  two  sides  to  his  proposition  had 
never  struck  him,  and  for  the  moment  his  jaw  fell. 

"Not  here,  Mademoiselle;  in  God's  name,  not 
here!" 

"In  His  name,  where,  if  not  with  my  people? 
Speak  truth,  old  friend." 

"  There  are  peasants  to  spare,  but  only  one  Denise 
de  Lhoeac." 

"  And  being  Denise  de  Lhoeac  shall  I  turn  coward, 
the  one  coward  of  us  all?  " 

"  Mademoiselle,  Mademoiselle,"  and  in  his  agita- 
tion Roger  Patcham  seized  Denise  by  the  hands, 
and  holding  her  at  arms-length  gripped  her  harder 
than  he  knew.  "  This  is  no  question  of  courage. 


i8o  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

Go,  for  Lhoeac's  sake.  This  thing  will  pass,  and  if 
in  passing  it  leaves  Lhoeac  bereft,  what  will  become 
of  those  who  remain  ?  " 

"  The  thing  is  right,  Father  Roger ;  and,  being 
right,  let  God  take  care  of  the  if's.  To  Him  I  trust 
them." 

"  But  what  gain  is  there  that  you  should  keep 
yourself  pent  up  ?  Nay,  there  is  rather  loss.  How 
can  we  come  and  go,  since  we  risk  you  at  every 
coming?" 

"  Who  said  pent  up  ?  " 

"  What !  "  cried  Roger  Patcham,  staring  in  blank 
horror,  "  you  would  never  go  to  Saint  Agnes  with 
this  let  loose  ?  That  is  no  dainty  woman's  busi- 
ness." 

"  Leave  the  dainty  aside.  Sick  folk  make 
woman's  work,  and  what  another  woman  can  do  I 
can  do.  We  are  all  one  at  bottom  when  the  need 
comes,  whether  wench  of  the  hut  or  dame  of  the 
castle." 

"  But  the  sights,  the  sights  ;  the  sickening,  filthy 
horror  of  it  all!  " 

"  Aye,  I  know,  I  know,"  and  for  the  first  time  her 
voice  broke,  since  the  nature  that  can  face  danger 
may  yet  shrink  from  dirt ;"  hearten  me,  Father 
Roger,  lest  the  spirit  and  the  flesh  fall  out  and  I  be 
lost  between  them." 

"  And  will  nothing  move  you  ?  " 

"  Dear  friend,  be  honest  with  me.  In  my  place 
wouldst  thou  be  moved  ?  " 

"  Then  God  bless  and  keep  you  ;  there  is  hope  for 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  181 

Saint  Agnes  yet.  Oh  !  these  swine,  these  swine,  I 
would  to  the  Lord " 

But  Denise  put  her  hand  upon  his  mouth. 

"  Let  the  poor  souls  be,"  she  said  ;  "  and  you  know 
this  well  enough,  Father  Roger,  that  for  all  your 
rough  ways  and  hard  speech  you  would  take  your 
life  loose  in  your  hand  for  these  very  same  swine, 
nor  count  it  any  great  thing  to  do." 

Which,  being  a  truth  there  was  no  gainsaying, 
ended  the  argument.  As  for  Madame  Catherine, 
she  was  of  a  different  clay,  and  so  went  sick  with 
terror,  and  yet  clung  to  Denise  as  if  life  had  lain 
that  way  and  not  death ;  so  that  when  Roger 
Patcham  took  to  reckoning  up  afresh  the  incompre- 
hensibilities of  woman  he  had  to  add  this  marvel,  as 
old  as  the  world  and  as  enduring — neither  fear  nor 
death  can  turn  back  love. 

For  three  days  there  was  no  strange  stir  in  the 
village.  The  mystery  and  amazement  of  Jean 
Tron's  death  and  funeral  pyre  had  worn  off,  and 
Saint  Agnes  was  as  Saint  Agnes  had  ever  been — 
dull,  sleepy,  and  with  no  interest  beyond  the  clod- 
dish gossip  of  its  one  wine-shop.  Then,  almost  in 
the  one  hour,  to  five  out  of  its  eighty  hovels  there 
came  the  notoriety  of  sudden  sickness,  and  as  the 
news  drifted  up  to  Lhoeac,  Denise  felt  that  grip 
seize  upon  her  heart  which  was  not  to  slacken  for 
many  sorrowful  weeks.  The  first  seeds  of  Jean 
Tron's  sowing  had  sprouted,  but  they  were  to  the 
full  braiding  what  the  herald  droppings  of  a  storm 
are  to  the  vicious  lash  of  the  final  cloud-burst.  The 


182  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

five  grew  to  ten,  the  ten  to  twenty,  then  at  a  leap 
the  twenty  were  a  hundred  ;  death's  hand  went 
busily  here  and  there,  and  with  his  fingers  fumbling 
at  its  throat,  Saint  Agnes  went  fair  mad. 

But  before  that  came  to  pass  Denise  had  taken 
action.  In  warfare  there  are  two  methods  of  fight- 
ing an  entrenched  enemy,  assault  and  siege,  and  of 
these  she  chose  the  second.  To  pity  Saint  Agnes 
was  good,  and  the  poor  souls  had  fair  need  for  all 
that  pity  could  give  them,  but  her  care,  thought, 
and  vigilance  were  for  Lhoeac  at  large,  and  for  all 
her  pity  she  had  no  right  to  sacrifice  the  whole  to 
the  part.  Therefore  round  Saint  Agnes  she  threw 
a  cordon  of  Lhoeac's  men,  changing  them  once  in 
three  days,  and  through  which  no  man  might  pass 
out,  let  his  plea  be  never  so  plausible,  his  tale  never 
so  piteous,  nor  in  without  her  permission. 

"  Let  the  monks  come,"  said  she  when  Roger 
posed  her  with  the  difficulty,  half  because  she  was 
mistress,  and  half  in  annoyed  vexation  at  her  self- 
will  ;  "  but  once  here  let  them  bide  here.  A  friar's 
frock  can  carry  contagion  as  well  as  a  peasant's  rags, 
and  he  who  does  God's  work  must  wait  the  issue, 
even  to  death  itself,  and  never  look  back." 

Then,  leaving  Madame  Catherine — a  limp  figure 
of  tearful  protestations — to  play  mistress  at  the 
Chateau,  she  rode  down  to  Saint  Agnes,  and,  with 
Roger  Patcham  as  captain  of  her  troop,  camped  in 
the  pasture  a  short  furlong  back  from  the  village. 

That  had  been  on  the  day  when  the  ten  became 
twenty  and  death's  fingers  nipped  for  the  second 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  183 

time,  and  it  may  be  that  the  sight  of  the  circle  of 
armed  men  holding  them  pent,  and  their  Suzeraine 
within  the  circle,  helped  to  drive  Saint  Agnes  mad. 
For  the  first  time  they  were  shaken  out  of  their 
stolid  acceptance  of  the  existent  as  the  inevitable, 
and  the  very  presence  of  their  mistress  was  enough 
to  flutter  them  abroad  like  pigeons  from  a  raided 
cote.  The  aged,  the  sick,  the  dying,  the  dead,  were 
alike  forgotten,  and  in  its  terror  Saint  Agnes  made 
a  burst  for  it,  knew  not  and  cared  not  where,  if  it 
were  but  anywhere  out  of  Saint  Agnes.  But  the 
cordon  drew  in.  In  every  direction  the  straggling 
flight  was  turned  back,  and  that  night  was  to 
Denise  de  Lhoeac  the  most  terrible  of  her  life. 

Terror  broke  through  the  formal  crust  of  rever- 
ence and  awe  that  shut  the  peasant  from  his  lord ; 
the  thin  veneer  of  the  church's  overlaying  was  torn 
aside,  the  unquestioning  obedience  born  of  many 
generations'  service  was  flung  to  the  winds,  and  un- 
der the  spur  of  abject  dread  of  it  knew  not  what 
the  sleeping  devil  in  Saint  Agnes  awoke.  Fire, 
sword,  and  spoliation  they  could  endure :  were  not 
these  and  the  death  that  hung  upon  their  skirts, 
sooner  or  later  the  almost  inevitable  lot  of  the 
peasant,  the  accustomed  pricks  against  which  none 
kicked  ;  but  this  creeping  horror  that  killed  them 
stealthily  in  corners  and  with  so  gross  a  loathsome- 
ness, they  would  not  tamely  suffer.  A  motley,  ill- 
favoured  crowd  it  was  that  clamoured  round  the 
tent  before  which  stood  Denise  de  Lhoeac — women 
with  wailing,  starving  children  hugged  in  their  arms 


184  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

or  clinging  to  their  draggled  skirts,  men  bearing 
their  poor  wealth  of  household  goods  upon  their 
shoulders,  and  careless  who  they  flung  aside  in  the 
brutality  of  the  despair  that  possessed  them  ;  the 
aged  and  infirm  hobbling  on  sticks  or  crutches, 
their  very  frailty  forgotten  in  the  frantic  rush 
thrusting  its  way  to  the  front ;  all  weeping,  railing, 
cursing,  threatening,  as  the  mood  moved  them,  and 
only  held  impotent  to  murder  by  the  girdle  of 
Lhoeac's  men  drawn  betwixt  them  and  the  object  of 
their  wrath.  The  very  sick  had  crawled  from  their 
straw,  and  in  the  forefront  of  the  circle  added  their 
execrations  to  the  tumult,  and  there,  as  they  cursed, 
the  scourge  found  them,  for  two  staggered,  swayed 
upon  their  knees,  and  died  ;  and  round  about  them, 
and  over  them,  the  clamour  drew  in,  unheeding. 

Thrice  Denise  sought  to  speak,  and  thrice  the 
seething  crowd  roared  her  down,  pelting  her  with 
threats  and  vile  epithets  till,  though  she  still  faced 
it,  her  lips  went  as  white  as  her  face.  For  the  most 
part  the  outcry  came  from  the  men,  the  aged,  and 
the  sick ;  and  Roger  Patcham  noticed  with  a  kind 
of  wonder  that  the  stronger  or  the  weaker  the  life 
the  greater  the  clamour.  The  women,  except  for  a 
few  gross  termagants,  were  silent  or  only  wept  softly. 

"  Let  them  be,"  he  said  to  Denise  under  his 
breath  as  her  hand  went  down  after  her  third 
failure.  "  They  will  tire  presently,  and  if  I  know 
aught  of  the  plague  you  will  be  well  avenged  on 
the  dogs  for  this  night's  outburst.  Let  their  rage 
calm  and  then  your  turn  will  come." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  185 

"  Avenged  ?  "  answered  she,  with  a  sob  in  her 
throat.  "  God  knows  they  might  have  me  in  pieces 
this  very  hour  if  it  would  but  save  them." 

"  You,  you  ?  "  he  cried,  stamping  his  foot  as  he 
looked  round  the  tenfold  circle  of  passionate  faces 
lit  for  all  their  hot  anger  into  a  cold  ghastliness  by 
the  full  of  the  moon  ;  "  before  a  hair  of  your  head 
fell  I  would  see  not  alone  Saint  Agnes,  but  every 
coward  and  brute  beast  in  Lhoeac  laid  in  the  ashes 
with  Jean  Tron  ;  and  yet  from  my  heart  I  cannot 
but  say  you  are  right  to  be  here,  for  all  their  curs- 
ing. Poor  souls  !  "  he  went  on,  with  contemptuous 
toleration,  but  still  watching  them  narrowly,  "  how 
can  they  understand  ?  and  being  ignorant,  why 
should  they  not  curse  ?  It  were  beyond  nature  that 
they  should  not." 

In  both  his  prophecies  Roger  Patcham  was  right. 
The  anger  that  is  born  of  terror  soon  tires,  lacking 
fresh  fuel.  Little  by  little  the  storm  subsided. 
Its  very  passion  tore  its  persistence  to  tatters,  and  it 
was  still  three  hours  before  dawn  when  Denise  went 
in  peace  to  seek  such  rest  as  was  possible.  Not  to 
sleep — overstrained  nature  forbade  sleep — but  at 
least  to  tranquillity  and  the  grateful  calm  coolness 
of  the  night,  to  prayer,  to  pity,  and  to  planning. 
Saint  Agnes  must  not  be  let  suffer  for  the  senseless 
folly  of  Saint  Agnes !  Then,  when  the  day  had 
dawned  broadly,  the  second  forecast  came  true. 
Through  the  low  hours  of  the  early  morning  the 
plague  fearfully  avenged  the  overnight  madness,  for 
the  folk  went  down  like  murrained  sheep. 


186  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

Then  it  was  that  the  twenty  leaped  to  a  hundred, 
and  then  it  was,  too,  that  the  terrifying  impish 
tricks  of  the  pest  showed  themselves.  A  veritable 
monarch  amongst  scourges  is  the  plague,  choosing 
whosoever  he  will  with  a  royal  prerogative  that  dis- 
dains reasons.  Le  roy  le  veu/t,  that  is  enough.  In 
this  house  three  lay  groaning,  in  that  four;  then 
with  the  regal  caprice  of  King  Death  he  leaped 
four  hovels  even  filthier  than  the  rest  and  in  the 
next  drew  two  into  his  arms.  From  thence  he 
skipped  the  street  at  a  bound,  and  like  a  runner 
upon  stepping-stones  left  the  impress  of  his  foot 
upon  a  long  line  without  a  pause  or  break.  Impar- 
tial as  God's  justice,  he  showed  no  natural  selection. 
The  gaffer  crawling  on  two  sticks,  the  babe  at  the 
mother's  breast,  the  girl  fresh  from  her  first  com- 
munion, the  burly,  weather-tanned  bread-winner  as 
hard-bitten  and  firm  of  muscle  as  one  of  his  own 
oxen,  all  were  gathered  alike  to  his  Catholic  bosom  ; 
and  neither  age,  youth,  nor  strength  could  say  him 
nay,  nor  "  I  am  exempt !  "  Only,  to  some  the  end 
came  swiftly,  while  with  others  he  played  and  toyed, 
till  between  hope  and  fear  they  knew  not  whether 
to  praise  God  or  curse  their  torment. 

That  day  Denise  won  her  victory.  With  the  poor 
souls  of  Saint  Agnes  reaction  had  set  in.  The 
fierce  denunciations  of  the  night  were  replaced  by 
sullen  indifference,  and  in  the  room  of  wild  rage 
was  a  callous  and  deadly  fatalism.  They  were  to 
die,  then  let  them  die.  Left  to  themselves,  their 
logic  would  have  gone  a  step  further ;  they  were  to. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  187 

die,  then  let  them  die  at  once,  and  in  their  despair- 
ing dash  for  the  outer  world  the  ring  of  guards 
would  have  cut  them  down  and  so  made  an  end. 
All  that  Denise  stopped. 

Dressed  in  pure  white,  and  as  sad-faced  as  the 
Madonna  from  their  own  church,  a  true  mother  of 
many  sorrows  not  of  her  own  making,  she  went 
from  stricken  house  to  stricken  house,  Roger 
Patcham  and  two  grave-eyed  brothers  of  Saint 
Joseph  following  after  her;  and  if  these  last 
trembled,  they  trembled  behind  the  set  masks  of 
their  solemn  faces  and  gave  no  sign.  The  sick  she 
cheered,  the  despairing  she  roused,  the  dead  she 
mourned,  the  living  she  comforted ;  and  as  wives, 
mothers,  husbands,  children,  saw  the  sweet  and 
gentle  woman,  who  was  to  their  awed  reverence  as 
far  removed  from  them  as  the  King  himself,  share 
their  dangers,  bearing  with  them  the  burden  of 
their  grief  and  loss,  they  took  to  themselves  both 
shame  and  courage.  The  sullen  waters  were  broken 
up,  life  took  fresh  strength  unto  itself,  and  the 
newly-stirred  dignity  of  duty  overcame  despair. 

Not  all  at  once,  for  if  the  night  had  been  terrible 
what  was  the  day !  The  plague  apart,  Saint  Agnes 
in  its  frank  nakedness  was  a  revelation  to  its  mis- 
tress. In  spite  of  the  narrow  windows  the  pitiless 
June  sun  searched  out  the  hideous  misery  of  the 
hovels,  laying  bare  the  unimagined  wretchedness 
which  lurked  behind  the  sometimes  bright  ex- 
teriors. The  filth,  the  noisomeness,  the  teeming 
life  packed  in  the  cramped  restriction  of  the  space, 


188  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

the  generations  of  broken  age  and  budding  youth 
herded  together  within  the  narrow  compass  of  a 
single  room,  the  outrage  of  all  modesty,  where 
parents,  children,  grandsire  burrowed  in  the  same 
scanty  litter  of  tossed  straw,  appalled  her.  The 
beasts  of  Lhoeac  were  the  chosen  of  the  earth 
compared  with  Christians  of  Saint  Agnes,  and  a 
sense  of  her  own  guilt  smote  her  with  sudden 
sharpness.  To  leave  an  evil  uncured  was  to  be 
partaker  in  the  evil,  and  before  God  such  ignorance 
as  she  could  plead  was  no  palliation  of  guilt.  It 
was  her  business  to  know  her  duty  of  life,  and  she 
had  not  known  :  therefore  she  was  guilty. 

But  add  the  plague  to  all  this:  the  living  and  the 
dead  huddled  in  the  one  heap  ;  the  groans,  the 
prayers,  the  curses  of  the  untended  sick,  some 
already  parched  with  the  death-thirst  and  left 
untended  to  go  their  own  solitary  way  to  the  dark 
valley.  If  the  unstricken  had  ceased  to  care  even 
for  their  own  lives,  what  thought  would  they  give 
to  those  already  in  handigrips  with  the  destroyer? 
None  ;  and  so  Saint  Agnes  gave  them  no  thought. 
That  was  the  work  and  victory  of  Denise  de  Lhoeac. 
Through  these  desparing  houses  of  death  she  moved 
like  an  angel  of  life  and  mercy,  fearless,  tranquil, 
pitying,  authoritative,  and  none  but  herself  know- 
ing how  she  sickened,  staggering  in  spirit  under 
the  burden  she  bore  for  others.  But  as  she  passed 
eyes  brightened,  crushed  souls  rose  to  fresh  vigour, 
and  a  growing  wholesomeness  of  mind  supplanted 
the  callous  and  inert  fatalism.  Weary  alike  in 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  189 

body  and  mind,  when  the  night  fell  she  could  take 
to  her  comfort  that  Roger  Patcham  was  right  when 
he  said — 

"  It  is  not  Saint  Agnes  alone,  Mamzelle  Denise  : 
no,  nor  even  Lhoeac,  though  I  grant  that  with  me 
these  count  for  most ;  but  this  day  you  have  saved 
God  knows  how  much  of  Guienne,  aye,  or  of  France 
itself." 

The  struggle  with  Saint  Agnes  might  be  no  more 
than  a  struggle  of  a  day's  duration,  followed  by  a 
slowly  ripening  victory ;  but  the  fight  with  the 
plague  was  long-drawn  and  full  of  fierce  vicissi- 
tudes. July  halted  miserably  after  June,  and  August 
trod  slowly  on  the  heels  of  July  before  the  rout  was 
complete,  and  within  these  weeks  in  the  midst  of  the 
stress  and  strain  of  the  battle  there  came  into  the 
life  of  Denise  de  Lhoeac  that  which  never  left  it 
while  life  lasted.  Of  these  vicissitudes  there  is  no 
need  to  say  much.  They  were  no  more  than  the 
common,  gradual  subsidence  of  the  pestilence,  and 
its  sudden  recrudescences  consequent  upon  head- 
strong folly.  Once  it  was  pure  bravado,  once  it 
was  a  drunken  orgy,  and  once  it  was  a  cause  which 
later  on  must  be  detailed  more  particularly,  that 
gave  the  pest  new  life.  But  all  these  outbreaks,  no 
matter  what  their  origin,  had  to  be  met,  stayed,  and 
throttled,  and  well  it  was  for  Denise  de  Lhoeac  that 
an  ally  came  to  her  aid  about  the  end  of  the  sixth 
week  of  the  struggle. 

Never  was  excommunicated  city  cut  off  from 
human  sympathy  more  fully  than  was  Saint  Agnes 


190  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

cut  off  from  the  outer  world  except  through  two 
channels.  Though  Denise  never  allowed  her  to 
break  the  protective  cordon,  ma  mie  Maman  up  at 
Chateau  Lhoeac  did  all  for  the  stricken  town  that  a 
woman's  love  could  do  in  bringing  to  the  edge  of 
the  neutral  zone  such  comforts  and  aids  to  nursing 
as  the  forlorn  wretches  had  never  dreamed  of  in 
their  wealthiest  hours.  These  were  for  the  life  that 
passeth,  and  counted  for  much,  for  many  a  life 
passed  the  gentler  because  of  them  ;  but  for  the  life 
that  is  eternal  there  was  thought  and  service  of 
another  kind,  and  the  Carmelite  Fathers  of  Saint 
Joseph  spent  themselves  ungrudgingly. 

The  two  who  had  followed  Denise  that  first 
terrible  day  speedily  became  nine  ;  within  eight  days 
the  nine  were  levelled  down  to  six  ;  and  thence- 
forward until  the  end  of  the  battle  not  a  week 
passed  but  one  or  more  of  these  white-frocked 
warriors  of  the  Lord,  uncomplaining,  diligent, 
heroic  souls,  true  soldiers  of  their  Master,  laid  down 
life  without  a  murmur,  and  ever  into  the  gapped 
ranks  there  stepped  another  unconscious  hero,  as 
devoted  as  he  was  simple-hearted. 

But  towards  the  close  of  July,  as  Denise  was 
crossing  the  one  roadway  of  Saint  Agnes,  an 
unaccustomed  sound  made  her  turn  sharply.  It 
was  the  ring  of  horse-hoofs  on  the  smooth  cobbles, 
and  of  horses  there  should  be  none  in  Saint  Agnes, 
since  what  use  were  they  to  men  who  were  pent  in 
hold  and  could  neither  go  out  nor  come  in?  Being 
turned,  she  saw  Captain  Patcham  walking  by  the 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  191 

stirrup  of  a  stranger,  and  for  all  her  astonishment 
she  had  time,  as  the  sun  shone  full  upon  both  their 
faces,  to  note  with  a  sudden  pain  at  her  heart  how 
sorrowfully  worn  and  aged  Father  Roger  had  grown. 
His  grizzled  hair  was  frank  grey,  his  face  shrunken 
and  furrowed,  his  beard  gone  white,  his  shoulders 
stooped.  The  hill  of  life  had  been  crossed  at  a 
stride,  and  already  he  was  half-way  down  the 
further  side.  The  weeks  of  trouble  and  anxious 
thought  had  bitten  deep.  Then,  with  a  sigh  that 
the  cost  must  be  paid  by  others  as  well  as  by 
herself,  she  went  forward  to  meet  the  two. 

"  It  is  not  my  fault,  Mademoiselle,"  began  Roger, 
with  an  upward  gesture;  "and  indeed  we  can  do 
with  another  man  who  has  no  fear  and  can  use 
authority.  Give  Saint  Agnes  courage  and  you  give 
it  health.  Monsieur,  here " 

But  it  seemed  that  it  was  not  Monsieur's  habit 
to  let  another  speak  for  him. 

"  Let  me  telLmy  own  story,"  said  he,  and  Denise, 
as  she  watched  him  sitting  there  bareheaded  in 
the  sunshine,  thought  him  as  goodly  a  man  as 
had  crossed  Lhoeac  these  many  months;  broad- 
shouldered,  big-limbed,  muscular,  as  to  frame ; 
bright,  frank,  and  sunny  of  face :  and  bearing,  as  a 
man  should,  his  eight-and-twenty  years  as  if  he  were 
unconscious  of  them.  "  Yet  there  are  so  many  tags 
to  the  talk  that  where  to  begin  is  a  puzzle.  There 
is  the  coward's  terror  that  watches  beyond  your 
border,  for,  on  my  faith,  they  are  in  a  fine  pucker 
at  Clazonn£  ;  there  is  the  whispering  of  devotion 


I92  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

and  self-sacrifice  that  half-shames  even  the  terror ; 
there  is  my  unworthy  self — these  and  other  matters, 
all  differing  and  yet  all  bound  up  into  one  like  the 
strands  of  a  rope." 

"  Begin  with  yourself,  Monsieur.  We  have  terror 
enough  in  Saint  Agnes,  and  the  less  said  of — of — 
the  other  the  better." 

"  Then  of  these  presently.  Mademoiselle,  I  am 
from  Italy,  where  I  have  served  France,  and  yet,  I 
pray  God,  done  no  despite  to  the  cause  of  our  Holy 
Father.  Nay — and  I  do  not  say  it  to  boast,  but 
that  you  may  know  who  and  what  I  am — no  more 
than  three  months  back  his  Holiness  named  me 
Lord  of  Casera  ;  I  have  as  yet  no  patrimony  of  my 
own.  That  it  was  honourably  won,  my  friend," 
and  he  turned  to  Roger  with  a  nod,  "  I  have  that 
upon  my  breast  to  show,  and  told  in  a  language 
you  have  known  this  many  a  year.  Again  I  say, 
this  is  not  to  boast ;  in  these  bustling,  troubled 
times  scars  are  common  enough,  God  knows — more 
common  a  thousand  times  than  a  woman's  brave 
self-forgetfulness  and  abnegation  ;  but  coming  as  I 
do  I  must  needs  be.  my  own  herald,  and  it  is  for  the 
good  of  all  that  you  receive  me  frankly  from  the 
first.  To  sum  it  up,  I  am  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier  ; 
am  neither  rich  nor  poor,  and  hold  that  Christian 
faith  which  fears  God,  honours  the  King,  and  loves 
one  woman,  who,  by  your  leave,  shall  be  nameless. 
Is  that  enough  of  myself,  Mademoiselle,  and  you, 
my  friend  ?" 

"  I  am  content,  Monsieur,"  answered  Denise, 
with  a  glance  at  Roger,  who  replied  bluntly— 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  193 

"  I  also,  and  the  more  so  that  what  is  done  can't 
be  mended.  You  have  stretched  out  an  arm  further 
than  you  can  draw  it  back,  young  gentleman,  which 
my  grey  hair  tells  me  is  a  fool's  deed  in  a  man." 

"  Who  seeks  to  draw  it  back  ?  And  when  my 
folly  is  clear  I  will  admit  it.  But  that  brings  me  to 
the  terror  beyond  Lhoeac,"  answered  the  other, 
dismounting  as  he  spoke  and  slipping  the  bridle 
into  the  crook  of  his  arm.  "  That  you  have  cowards 
enough  here  is  plain  to  be  seen,"  and  he  nodded 
towards  a  group  or  two  of  haggard  folk  loitering 
upon  the  roadway  and  eyeing  the  newcomer 
curiously  ;  "  but  the  cowards  beyond  Lhoeac  are 
still  more  plentiful,  and  with  less  excuses.  At 
Clazonne,  there,  where  they  housed  me  for  a  night, 
every  soul,  from  my  lord  to  my  lord's  scullion,  goes 
softly  for  fear  of  Saint  Agnes,  and  yet  every  man- 
jack  would  cheerily  face  three  in  the  field  and  think 
nought  of  it.  Now  if  a  man  but  sneezes  he  is 
driven  to  the  beasts  for  his  fellowship,  and  not  a 
roysterer  of  them  all  dare  drink  himself  drunk  lest 
he  hiccup  himself  to  a  sudden  end  for  the  health  of 
the  rest.  That  the  folk  here  do  not  thank  you  for 
your  cordon,  Mademoiselle,  I  can  well  believe : 
yet — and  I  say  it  in  bitter  shame  for  our  humanity — 
had  you  not  penned  them  here  more  had  perished 
by  violence  than  have  died  of  the  plague.  Small 
mercy  would  they  have  found  from  their  fellows. 
So  much  for  the  second  tag  to  my  tale ;  now  for 
the  third." 

While  he  was  speaking  they  had  moved  slowly 


194  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

forward,  and  for  a  dozen  paces  there  was  silence. 
Thus  far  his  tongue  had  run  freely  enough,  but 
Monsieur  de  Casera  plainly  found  it  hard  to  put  the 
rest  of  his  story  into  words. 

"  We  from  Italy,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  swift 
glance  at  Denise  that  for  all  its  keenness  was  frankly 
friendly  and  no  more,  "  have,  I  think,  this  saving 
grace,  that  we  honour  womanhood  beyond  the  rest 
of  the  nations.  It  may  be  that  our  art  taught  us. 
Mademoiselle,  when  I  heard  at  Clazonne  how  that 
you " 

"Oh,  Monsieur,  Monsieur  !"  cried  Denise,  stop- 
ping him  short  with  a  gesture,  "  are  we  women 
smaller  souled  than  man,  less  pitiful,  less  tender, 
less  moved  by  sorrow  and  suffering,  that  in  one  of 
us  you  make  so  much  of  that  which  in  a  man  were 
pure  duty  and  a  thing  of  common  course  ?  Or  is  it 
that  in  Italy  you  have  learned  the  trick  of  gallantry, 
and  think  that  to  please  us  you  must  needs  tickle 
our  senses  through  our  ears?  If  the  one,  then  you 
pay  us  a  poor  compliment  and  I  can  give  you  no 
thanks ;  if  the  other,  alas !  that  St.  Agnes  is  no 
place  for  gallant  speeches  and  smooth  words. 
When  life  is  grim  earnest,  Monsieur,  these  courtly 
niceties  count  for  nought.  Nay,  they  are  like  a  jest 
by  a  graveside." 

"  Mademoiselle,"  answered  de  Casera  eagerly, 
"  believe  me  I  am  no  fop  to  mock  you  with  empty 
phrases.  What  I  heard  at  Clazonne  stirred  me  to 
the  very  soul,  and  I  thanked  God  the  world  held 
one  woman  great  enough  to  point  men  the  way  they 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  195 

should  go.  Great,  I  say,  great ;  for  belittle  it  as 
you  may,  this  that  you  have  done  is  no  small  thing, 
and  it  shames  the  men  of  Guienne." 

"  Hush,  Monsieur,  hush  !  you  slander  the  dead," 
cried  she,  flushing  at  the  sharp  vehemence  of  his 
speech.  "  Wait  until  I  show  you  the  nine  graves 
where  lie  the  monks  who  prove  the  manhood  of 
Guienne." 

"  Oh,  the  monks  !  the  monks !  "  said  he  contemp- 
tuously. "  God's  sheep  without  a  will  of  their  own. 
They  do  that  which  they  must  do  and  fight  with 
their  backs  to  a  wall.  I  give  no  man  credit  for  the 
courage  that  has  no  hope." 

"  Wait  and  see,"  answered  Denise  softly,  the 
tears  rising  to  her  eyes.  "  God's  sheep  you  call 
them,  and  your  sneer  hits  the  truth.  I  pray  the 
day  may  come  when  I  shall  be  of  the  same  fold." 

"  To  that  prayer,  Mademoiselle,"  replied  de 
Casera,  looking  her  boldly  in  the  face,  "  I  have  no 
amen  to  add,  if  the  fold  be  one  upon  earth." 

A  cry  from  a  house  near  by  set  a  stay  on  any 
answer  Denise  might  have  made,  and  when  they 
met  again — as  they  did  within  the  hour — they  met 
as  comrades  and  fellow-labourers  rather  than  as 
strangers,  but  with  hands  over-full  for  much  talk. 

Nor  was  Denise  long  in  finding  that  she  had 
gained  both  a  brain  and  a  right  arm,  the  one  clear 
and  the  other  strong.  It  was  not  de  Casera's  first 
wrestle  with  the  pestilence,  and  with  his  fewer  years 
he  brought  to  the  struggle  a  nimbler  wit  and  more 
kindly  temper  than  did  Roger  Patcham.  What  the 


196  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

Englishman  effected  by  blunt  authority,  herding  the 
folk  like  so  much  cattle,  brainless,  and  only  to  be 
driven,  de  Casera  won  by  sheer  good-will  and  a 
tactful  tongue.  No  task  daunted  him,  no  labour 
deterred  him,  no  danger  gave  him  pause ;  let  the 
evil  be  what  it  might,  his  cheer  and  his  courage 
were  alike  unappalled. 

With  him,  too,  came  new  methods.  He  it  was 
who  hacked  the  narrow  windows  into  thrice  their 
size,  letting  into  the  hot,  foul  hovels  both  light  and 
air,  who  closed  the  church  and  the  markets  that 
there  might  be  no  close  huddling  of  the  folk,  who 
built  airy  sheds  for  the  sick  folk,  who  set  the  men 
and  women  to  labour,  the  children  to  play,  bidding 
those  laugh  and  sing  who  could,  and  so,  little  by 
little,  won  the  people  back  to  their  common  whole- 
some round  of  life.  With  the  women  he  had  his 
quip  and  his  jest,  florid  enough,  perhaps,  to  set  them 
giggling,  but  he  knew  his  folk ;  with  the  men  there 
were  tales  of  the  wars,  so  full  of  the  rust  of  life  that 
even  their  stolidity  gaped  ;  with  the  children  he  had 
his  games  of  strange  lands.  Nought  came  amiss  to 
him.  His  humour  matched  the  needs  he  met  with, 
so  that  within  an  hour  Denise  had  seen  him  wipe 
the  death-sweat  from  the  face  of  Marie  Tron  and 
romp  madly  with  a  two-year  bairn  as  if  there  were 
nothing  in  the  broad  world  but  laughter. 

As  to  Denise  herself,  he  vexed  her  with  no  second 
praise,  but  day  by  day,  unknown  to  herself,  she 
grew  to  lean  upon  his  broad  sympathies,  trust  to 
his  quick  judgment,  and  appeal  to  his  unfailing  re- 
source. Day  by  day,  too,  though  this,  too,  she 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  197 

hardly  knew,  the  burden  of,  as  it  were,  personal 
responsibility  slipped  from  her  shoulders  to  his. 
Her  eyes  lightened,  the  careworn  tension  that  had 
lined  her  face  relaxed,  and  more  than  once  the 
laughter  that  was  hers  by  right  of  youth  came  back 
to  her,  and  she  caught  herself  singing,  all  uncon- 
sciously, snatches  of  Olivier  Basselin's  songs,  as  she 
had  sung  them  twenty  years  before  to  soothe  the 
outworn,  weary  age  of  old  Guy  de  Lhoeac.  That  a 
new  order  of  things  had  come  to  her  as  well  as  to 
Saint  Agnes  she  knew,  but  that  it  had  its  root  in 
more  than  frank  friendship  she  did  not  know  until 
Father  Roger  opened  her  eyes. 

It  was  no  more  than  the  third  week  of  de  Casera's 
coming  to  Saint  Agnes,  but  in  such  times  when 
every  flaw  in  a  man  is  sought  out  by  a  thousand 
worries,  as  a  smith  tries  armour  with  his  hammer, 
weeks  stand  for  years. 

"  God  send  such  a  master  to  Lhoeac,"  said  Captain 
Patcham,  as  he  finished  telling  Denise  of  some  new 
labour  the  Italian  had  invented  for  the  heartening  of 
the  men.  "  Womenfolk  are  beyond  me,  but  it  is  my 
business  to  know  men.  God  grant,  Mademoiselle, 
that  I  may  see  children  playing  about  the  old  halls 
before  I  die." 

But  instead  of  the  blood  to  the  cheeks  that  Roger 
looked  for,  Denise  paled  and  her  face  grew  hard. 

"  Its  mistress  must  be  its  master,"  she  answered 
curtly,  and  turned  into  her  tent. 

But  as  the  flap  of  its  curtain  fell,  her  heart  was 
very  bitter  against  that  earnest  ecclesiastic,  Mon- 
seigneur  the  Cardinal  of  Saint-Seurin. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION. 
I. 

THAT  night  Denise  slept  but  little.  Subtle 
powers  were  at  war  within  her,  and  through  their 
sharp  antagonism  her  peace  of  mind  was  rent  to 
tatters.  Some  men,  and  not  a  few  women,  would 
have  confused  the  issue  knit  between  herself  and 
her  conscience,  but  not  so  Denise.  That  my  Lord 
Bishop  had  trapped  her  into  marriage  for  his  own 
purposes,  playing  upon  her  as  Pan  upon  his  pipes 
and  caring  nothing  for  the  pain  of  the  reed  if  but 
the  music  pleased  himself,  she  now  believed.  But 
though  she  had  been  caught  by  a  flat  lie,  brazened 
out  and  sworn  to  in  the  very  face  of  heaven,  it  had 
been  none  the  less  a  marriage  ;  nor  was  she  the  less 
a  wife ;  and  that  Denise  la  Clazonne  should  think 
twice  of  a  man  not  her  husband  was  an  abashment 
and  a  disgrace.  Nay,  it  was  a  blank  surprise.  She 
had  not  so  much  as  dreamed  that  such  a  thing  was 
possible. 

She  was  a  wife,  she  told  herself — a  wife,  a  wife  ; 
and  if  she  had  allowed  herself  to  forget,  she  must 
forget  no  longer. 

That  way  lay  duty,  that  way  lay  religion.  Of  all 
God's  unhappy  creatures  there  was  none  she  scorned 
like  the  woman  who  could  put  off  her  honour  like 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.          199 

a  loose  glove  and  think  no  shame  of  the  nakedness ; 
and  to  her  overwrought  emotion  it  seemed  as  if  she 
had  rubbed  skirts  with  such  a  one.  Then  into  the 
lists  of  battle  love  leaped,  all  nature  in  his  train,  and 
crying  out  against  the  barren  desolation  of  the  time 
to  come.  In  an  instant  Denise  was  in  an  agony  of 
revolt.  Was  a  monk's  chicane  to  rob  her  of  the  best 
of  life  ?  to  send  her  out  into  the  world  to  feed  upon 
the  husks,  bound,  but  not  by  cords  of  love ;  a  wife 
and  yet  no  wife  ?  But  that  brought  the  circle 
round  again,  and  for  the  first  time  realising  to  the 
full  of  what  she  had  been  cozened;  she  turned  upon 
her  pillow  and  wept.  Hitherto  she  had  known  so 
little  of  love,  and  that  she  might  have  known  so 
much  she  now  knew  from  a  score  of  trifles  to  which 
her  eyes  had  been  shut.  Let  a  man  be  an  Arthur,  a 
Roland,  a  Bayard,  aye,  or  even  a  Galahad,  and 
there  will  ever  be  a  subtle  difference  between  his 
chivalry  and  his  love,  let  the  love  be  never  so  silent, 
never  so  repressed ;  and  who  so  keen  to  note  such 
subtleties  as  a  woman  ?  and  of  all  women  the  one 
to  whom  these  subtleties  go  out ! 

She  had  been  cheated,  wronged.  Therefore 
Denise  took  no  shame  that  she  had  .  unwittingly 
given  what  was  unsought  in  words.  The  giving 
was  nature's,  not  hers.  Her  shame  was  rather 
partly  this,  that  she  had  won  what  she  could  not 
openly  return ;  and  now  to  her  own  pain  was  to  be 
added  the  greater  sorrow  of  paining  the  man  who 
had  so  suddenly  and  so  fully  grown  into  her  life. 
That  she  who  had  sinned  should  suffer  was  no  more 


200  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

than  bitter  justice,  and  in  her  moments  of  repro- 
bation she  held  her  sin  to  be  great,  but  that  the 
innocent  should  suffer  with  her  set  an  edge  upon 
her  distress,  nor  could  the  universality  of  the  law 
comfort  her.  In  the  end,  true  woman-like,  she  lost 
sight  of  her  own  grief  and  loss  in  seeking  how  she 
might  best  spare  him. 

That,  more  than  the  revolt  of  nature  within 
herself,  was  the  cause  of  her  white  night.  After  the 
first  hot  upheaval  of  impotent  bitterness  against 
Henri  de  Lhoeac,  after  the  fierce  impulse  to  seize 
the  present  blessing  she  hungered  after,  to  cry 
"  Evil,  be  thou  my  good,"  and  let  the  future  care 
for  itself,  there  arose  her  true  self,  that,  grappling 
with  the  lower  forces  within  her,  threw  them  and 
held  them  under.  There  had  been  the  storm,  there 
had  been  the  fire  almost  consuming,  and  now  there 
came  the  still,  small  voice.  The  good  of  the  man 
she  loved  was  her  greatest  good,  and  to  the  shaping 
of  that  she  bent  her  thought. 

Shrewd  and  cool-witted  now  that  she  was  mistress 
of  herself,  Denise  knew  no  easy  task  was  set  her  to 
do.  This  Francois  de  Casera — and  even  as  she 
plotted  how  to  put  him  from  her  she  almost 
triumphed  in  the  difficulty  since  it  exalted  the  man 
she  loved — was  no  weak-willed  lad  to  be  turned 
from  his  purpose  by  a  cold  whim.  Let  her  belie 
her  nature  as  she  might  by  word  or  act,  he  would 
never  believe  the  fraud  against  herself.  No,  she  had 
tried  him,  and  he  was  too  true  a  man  for  that. 
What  man  worth  a  woman's  love,  and  who  had 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.         201 

plumbed  and  measured  mind  and  spirit  as  de 
Casera  had  plumbed  and  measured  hers,  would 
accept  her  at  the  valuation  of  a  coquette  even  upon 
her  own  showing?  Besides,  to  play  such  a  part 
was  to  sin  against  womanhood,  and  it  was  no  part 
of  her  creed  that  a  sin  should  cure  a  sin.  So,  while 
the  mellow  night  drew  to  its  coolest,  on  through  the 
silent  hours  of  the  greatest  darkness,  when  even  old 
Mother  E'arth  herself  appears  to  sleep,  so  tre- 
mendous are  her  silences,  past  the  first  slow  paling 
of  the  stars  and  their  sudden,  swift  extinguishment 
as  the  broadening  dawn  led  on  the  day,  she  lay 
thinking,  thinking,  and  in  the  end  turned  upon  her 
pillow  and  prayed  God  of  His  mercy  to  be  gracious 
to  Francois  de  Casera,  and  so  left  it.  Then  at  last 
she  fell  asleep,  and  slept  late.  When  she  came  out 
into  the  life  of  the  new  day,  it  was  to  find  that  the 
problem  which  distressed  her  was,  if  not  solved,  at 
least  so  far  set  aside  that  she  need  give  it  no  further 
immediate  thought.  At  the  door  of  the  tent  Father 
Roger  waited  her,  and  his  wrinkled  face  was  full  of 
anxious  trouble. 

"The  fat's  in  the  fire  again,"  said  he,  "  and  if  it 
were  not  that  'tis  a  priest  who  has  spilled  it  I 
would  think  the  devil  himself  had  been  at  work. 
Here  were  we  with  this  accursed  pestilence  stamped 
out,  or  at  least  held  in  check  and  cramped  within 
bounds  so  that  the  end  was  a  matter  of  days,  and 
now  it's  running  afresh  through  the  town  like  a 
fire  through  a  pine-wood.  Visitation  of  God? 
Visitation  of  all  the  fiends  of  hell,  say  I," 


202  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  What  ?  "  cried  Denise,  putting  her  hand  to  her 
head  like  one  dazed.  "  Again  ?  again  ?  And  how 
have  the  poor  Carmelites  sent  it  going?  " 

"Who  said  the  Carmelites?  I  said  a  priest. 
The  Carmelites  are  kindly  folk  enough,  and  preach 
the  love  of  God  rather  than  hell-fire,  as  the  Church 
should.  But  this  fellow,  one  would  think  him  filled 
with  brimstone  to  the  throat  to  hear  him  talk,  and 
he  has  Saint  Agnes  mad  with  terror.  If  it  were 
not  for  his  black  frock,  and  that  the  ninnies  of 
women  hold  him  for  a  prophet  and  so  would  raise 
a  riot,  I  would  pitch  him  neck  and  crop  outside  the 
lines  and  bid  our  men  run  him  through  if  he 
doubled  back.  But  he's  a  priest,  d'ye  see,  Mam- 
zelle,  and  what's  a  priest  but  God's  woman  ? 
He's  no  man,  that's  certain,  or  at  least  you  cannot 
trounce  him  like  a  man.  Oh,  these  wenches !  these 
fools  of  wenches !  there  is  not  one  of  them  all  but 
a  priest  can  turn — aye,  I  know,  I  know,  my  tongue 
runs  away  with  me,  but  as  to  Saint  Agnes,  what  I 
say  is  not  far  from  the  truth." 

At  his  last  words,  Denise,  pale  from  her  sleep- 
less  night  and  pitifully  hollow-eyed,  had  flushed 
to  the  temples.  Father  Roger  spoke  more  truth 
than  he  guessed,  and  as  her  thoughts  flew  back  to 
Bordeaux  his  random  bolt  went  home  and  she 
winced.  But  she  had  no  mind  at  that  time,  and 
indeed  little  reason,  to  defend  the  women  of  Saint 
Agnes,  so  she  let  his  tirade  pass  unchallenged. 

"  Begin  at  the  beginning,  for  to  me  it  is  all  a  con- 
fusion," she  said  gently,  "  Who  is  this  priest  you 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.         203 

speak  of?  and  what  has  he  done  to  set  you  rag- 
ing ? "  But  Roger  Patcham  had  at  last  seen  how 
sadly  the  Denise  of  the  morning  differed  from  the 
Denise  of  overnight,  and  in  his  fear  for  her  his 
wrathful  and  unwonted  wordiness  was  checked. 
Compared  with  his  darling's  well-being  it  was  a 
small  matter  that  Saint  Agnes  should  sup  its  own 
bitter  broth. 

"  Is  there  aught  amiss  ?  "  said  he  anxiously  and 
trying  hard  to  cover  his  fear  with  a  brave  face; 
41  you  have  no  sickness,  now  ?  No  swimming  in 
the  head?  No  catch  in  the  breath  as  if  a  knife 
pricked  you?  No — no — good  Lord,  Mademoiselle, 

it's  not — it's  not "  And  then,  rough  soldier  of 

fortune  though  he  was,  and  camp-hardened  against 
emotion,  his  voice  broke  and  he  stood  before 
her  stammering. 

44  No,  old  friend,  no ;  have  no  fear  for  me,"  an- 
swered Denise  quickly,  a  sudden  flush  of  comfort 
warming  her  heart.  Here  was  love  at  her  very 
door,  and  if  not  the  love  she  had  determined  to 
put  from  her,  still  love  that  was  very  tender,  very 
honest,  and  very  true.  4<  I  have  had  bad  dreams, 
that  is  all ;  and  now  that  I  am  awake  and  in  the 
sunshine  again  they  will  be  no  more  than  dreams." 

44  You  are  sure?"  he  persisted,  4<you  are  sure? 
Remember,  Mademoiselle,  in  half  an  hour  we  can 
have  you  at  the  Chateau." 

44  What  ?  and  break  the  cordon  ?  What  would 
become  of  Lhoeac?" 

41  Cordon  !     Lhoeac!  "  he  echoed  contemptuously. 


204  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  What  are  fifty  cordons — aye,  and  fifty  Lhoeacs  to 
boot — if  you  were  in  question  ?  Saint  Agnes  is  well 
enough  for  these  swine,  but  for  Denise  de  Lhoeac 
in  her  hour  of  need  !  By  the  saints,  but  that  were 
a  fool's  trick! " 

"  Then  it  is  well  for  Lhoeac,"  said  she,  smiling  at 
his  vehemence,  "  that  it  is  no  more  than  a  night's 
shadows  which  have  already  half-lifted.  In  my 
dream  I  was  between  two  worlds,  and  the  abyss 
on  either  side  frightened  me.  Now  what  of  this 
priest?  Who  is  he?  What  does  he  seek?  Whence 
came  he  ?  Ah !  " — and  she  broke  off  suddenly  as 
if  a  new  thought  had  struck  her — "  you  remember 
Brother  Martin,  do  you  not?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Patcham,  wondering  at  this 
fresh  twist  in  her  talk,  and  not  a  little  troubled  by 
the  irrelevance ;  "  though  it  is  strange  that  you 
should.  Why,  it  is  twenty  years " 

"  Nevertheless  I  remember.  He  was  a  Domini- 
can ;  is  this  monk,  by  chance,  a  Dominican  also  ?  ' 

"  It  is  strange,  I  say  again,  that  you  should  speak 
of  Brother  Martin  in  the  same  breath  with  this  fel- 
low, seeing  that  he  is  Martin's  very  twin  ;  big-boned, 
slender,  lean-chapped,  and  with  eyes  that  flame 
and  dull  like  smouldering  dead-wood.  But  he  is 
no  Dominican  ;  a  Cordelier,  I  think,  but  of  one  or 
other  of  the  Franciscan  branches,  and  so  a  sturdy 
hater  of  Saint  Dominic.  Trust  a  daw  to  peck 
at  a  daw.  But  what  matters  which  he  is?  He 
is  here,  and  if  he  were  a  Dominican  he  could  be 
no  worse  than  he  is." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.          205 

"Because  Martin  was  of  my  uncle's  sending," 
said  Denise  slowly,  "  and  I  thought,  perhaps " 

"  No  fear,  Mademoiselle,  no  fear ;  this  fellow 
came  in  by  way  of  the  south,  and  Monsieur  de 
Lhoeac'scardinalate  lies  to  the  north." 

"  And  the  longest  way  round  is  the  shortest  way 
there,  says  the  proverb.  He  came  by  way  of  the 
south?  What  then?" 

"Our  people,  like  the  fools  they  are,  let  him 
through  because  of  his  skirt  and  cord.  By  my 
faith,  if  I  had  once  seen  his  face  he  would  never 
have  set  foot  in  Saint  Agnes ;  a  proper  faggot  he 
is!  But  for  their  poor  soul's  sake  they  must  needs 
keep  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  church,  and  so  passed 
him  in  without  a  question  ;  and  there  he  is,  preach- 
ing  and  cursing  on  the  church  steps,  and  crying  out 
on  us  all  for  infidels  because  the  door  is  locked." 

"  That  was  Monsieur  de  Casera's  doing,  and  I  will 
not  have  it  undone,"  said  Denise  sharply.  "The 
sense  of  it  is  plain,  though  we  ourselves  did  not  see 
it ;  the  people  crowding  together  for  worship  spreads 
the  taint." 

"  I  agree,  Mademoiselle,  I  agree  ;  but  there  is  the 
closed  door  with,  as  he  says,  God  shut  from  the 
people  (as  if  an  inch  plank  could  keep  the  Almighty 
out  or  in),  and  on  the  step  is  this  firebrand  in  a  black 
frock  calling  down  judgment  on  us  all  because  of  the 
unserved  altar.  Twice  I  have  told  him  the  reason, 
and  for  answer  he  flings  '  Atheist ! '  in  my  face,  and 
says  what  matters  the  body  if  the  soul  be  saved, 
which  is  all  very  well,  but  when  the  Lord  God  gave 


206  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

us  bodies  He  meant  us  to  take  care  of  them  !  Then 
he  turns  to  the  people,  and " 

"  Where  is  Monsieur  de  Casera  ?  " 

"  There  on  the  steps  with  him,  and  if  it  were  not 
that  the  poor  fools  who  are  gaping  below  would 
suffer  for  it  I  would  ask  nothing  better  than  to  hear 
the  layman  teach  the  priest  God's  way  of  life.  My 
faith  !  but  it  would  do  the  church  good  to  hear  the 
truth  at  times,  and  this  Franciscan,  who  has  no 
more  wit  than  he  was  born  with,  would  hear  some- 
what !  A  shrewd  tongue  has  Monsieur  de  Casera." 

"  And  what  of  the  people  ?  " 

Roger  Patcham  paused  before  answering.  In  his 
perplexity  up  went  a  lean  hand  to  his  beard,  comb- 
ing it  with  diligence,  and  he  shifted  his  feet  uneasily 
on  the  crisped  grass. 

"Oh  !  the  people?"  he  said  cautiously,  and  keep- 
ing watchful  eyes  upon  Denise.  "  What  are  they 
better  than  stubble  waiting  for  the  first  spark,  and 
so  are  soon  alight ;  but,  by  the  Lord,  let  them  blaze 
beyond  reason,  and  I  shall  see  to  it  that  they  are  as 
soon  stamped  back  into  stubble  again,  and  if  there 
be  some  that  are  burnt,  why,  'tis  their  own  fault." 

"  Do  you  mean,"  cried  Denise,  starting  forward 
and  catching  him  by  the  sleeve,  "  that  they  might 
turn  upon  Monsieur  de  Casera  because  of  this  monk  ? 
Be  plain.  Captain  Patcham,  be  plain."  For  answer, 
Father  Roger  turned  sharply,  his  hollowed  hand  to 
his  ear. 

"  They  have  done  it,"  said  he,  shooting  one  quick 
glance  at  Denise.  "  Hark  at  that !  The  spark  has 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.         207 

caught  and  the  blaze  is  roaring  already.  Bide  here, 
Mademoiselle,  bide  here.  The  stamping  out  may 
come  less  easy  than  the  words." 

Catching  up  his  dangling  scabbard,  he  tucked  it 
under  his  left  arm  and  ran  stiffly  across  the  grass, 
calling  loudly  as  he  went  upon  Lhoeac's  men  for 
succour.  But  above  the  shout  Denise  heard  the 
rough  rumble  of  many  voices,  an  incoherent  strife 
of  tongues  swelling  to  a  hoarse  and  vicious  roar, 
and  gathering  together  her  cumbersome,  loose  skirts 
she  followed  Roger  Patcham,  running  her  hardest. 
The  problem  of  the  night  was  in  a  fair  way  to  a 
settlement  from  which  there  could  be  no  appeal,  no 
turning  back. 

II. 

Two-thirds  along  the  sinuous  line  of  roadway 
that  made  up  the  bulk  of  Saint  Agnes  the  street 
broadened  into  the  market-place,  an  insignificant 
cobble-paved  square  into  which  faced  the  squat, 
ugly,  and  no  less  insignificant  village  church  dedi- 
cated to  the  patron  Saint  of  Lhoeac.  Raised  about 
fifteen  feet  above  the  level  of  the  road,  it  was 
approached  by  a  flight  of  twenty  narrow  steps, 
rough-hewn  and  worn  by  the  drift  of  time  and 
weather  rather  than  by  the  pious  diligence  of 
worshippers  ;  Saint  Agnes  was  as  slumbrous  and 
placid  in  its  devotions  as  in  all  else  that  pertained 
to  life.  Simple  and  unpretentious  even  to  unsight- 
lincss,  the  end  abutting  upon  the  street  was  broken 


208  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

in  but  two  places,  a  heavily-moulded  rose-window 
placed  high  in  the  whitewashed  wall,  and  the  great 
door  which,  until  the  coming  of  the  pestilence,  had 
never  within  the  memory  of  man  been  closed  from 
dawn  to  sunset.  If  Saint  Agnes  was  not  addicted  to 
much  prayer,  it  was  not  for  want  of  the  opportunity 
to  pray. 

But  if  Saint  Agnes  in  the  days  of  its  ease  had 
been  remiss  in  its  devotions,  the  weight  of  its 
punishment  had  surely  wrought  repentance.  The 
market  square  now  teemed  with  life  that  fought 
and  struggled  and  changed  itself  from  humanity  to 
the  brute  in  its  passionate  endeavour  to  draw  near 
to  the  house  of  God.  Not  a  face  in  all  the  crowd 
but  was  turned  to  the  church  steps,  and  in  their 
zeal  men  and  women  strove  and  jostled,  trampling 
the  weaker  under  foot.  Truly  the  friar  of  Saint 
Francis  had  reason  to  be  proud  at  having  worked  so 
speedy  a  reformation,  for  never  had  a  miracle 
mystery,  no,  nor  Pere  Guignol  himself,  thus  stirred 
Saint  Agnes. 

An  ominous  reformation  and  a  portentous  stir- 
ring at  any  time,  but  chiefly  so  when  self-control 
was  worn  thin.  There  was  not  a  soul  in  all  the 
crowd  upon  whom  the  past  weeks  had  not  left  their 
seal.  The  already  old  had  grown  ancient,  the 
middle-aged  old,  the  very  lads  and  maidens  had  lost 
the  first  freshness  of  their  youth  and  taken  on  that 
sombre,  weary  resignation  which  is  so  early  the 
heritage  of  the  peasant.  Across  every  face  there 
had  crept  a  little  of  the  solemnity  of  the  eternal 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.         209 

world,  softening  its  hard  coarseness,  and  refining 
the  blunt  grossness  that  is  first-born  child  to  un- 
thinking ignorance.  Labouring  day  by  day  with 
the  brutes  in  the  field,  and  with  little  thought  be- 
yond a  brute's,  they  had  grown  up  from  childhood 
stolid  and  boorish.  Then  this  sudden  and  over- 
whelming anguish  had  come  upon  them,  teaching 
them  thought  and  sympathy,  and  the  spirit  within 
them,  stretching  itself  stiffly  as  it  were,  had  shaken 
off  its  accustomed  sloth. 

All  this  Denise  had  seen,  and  seeing  it  had  taken 
comfort  and  courage.  A  bitter  root  may  bear  fruit 
whereby  a  man  may  live,  and  therefore  from  the 
grave  of  so  many  of  its  children  it  was  possible  that 
Saint  Agnes  might  be  quickened  to  a  new  man- 
hood. But  as  she  turned  out  of  the  narrow,  rutted 
by-path  which  led  between  the  houses  to  the  dusty 
and  no  less  rutted  street,  her  courage  failed  and 
for  a  moment  she  stopped  short,  gasping.  But 
only  for  a  moment.  By  a  paradox  the  very  sight 
that  staggered  her  gave  her  strength.  In  place  of 
the  courage  of  consolation  there  came  the  greater 
courage  of  love,  and  setting  both  hands  to  her  pant- 
ing sides,  she  again  ran  on,  outstripping  Roger 
Patchanvin  what  she  deemed  a  race  for  a  life. 

What  had  happened  was  this  :  going  his  morning 
rounds  amongst  the  sick  folk,  the  unwonted  stir  in 
the  market-place,  and  the  way  in  which,  like  wasps 
to  honey,  the  idlers  were  drawn  there,  roused  de 
Casera's  curiosity;  and  he,  too,  made  his  way  along 
the  street.  On  the  eastern  side  of  the  square  was 


210  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

the  church  of  Saint  Agnes,  and  midway  up  the 
steps  stood  a  tall,  gaunt  figure,  clad  in  a  loose 
black  robe  from  the  lean  throat  to  the  sandalled 
feet,  and  bound  round  the  waist  by  a  rusty  swing- 
ing cord — a  nervously  energetic  figure,  for  its  arms 
swayed  like  flails  in  threshing  time,  and  the  dusty 
feet  were  never  still  for  an  instant. 

That  in  spite  of  the  cordon  there  should  be  a 
stranger  in  Saint  Agnes  was  surprise  enough  to  set 
de  Casera  staring,  but  the  monk's  words  were  a 
still  greater  amazement  ;  and  as  the  broken  phrases 
came  home  to  him,  and  as  he  noted  how  already 
the  priest  swayed  his  hearers,  Messire  Francois 
grew  hard  of  face.  The  Cordelier  was  in  a  fair  way 
to  wreck  utterly  a  three  weeks'  reputation  for  even 
temper !  Shouldering  his  way  through  the  crowd 
which  now  clustered  five  deep  along  the  roadway, 
and  overflowed  up  the  lower  steps,  de  Casera  un- 
ceremoniously laid  his  hand  on  the  monk's  collar. 

"  Hulloa,  friend  !  "  he  cried,  "  what  Bishop  gave 
thee  license  to  preach  in  Saint  Agnes  ?  and  a  creed, 
too,  that  is  as  black  as  thy  frock  !  " 

With  a  wrench  of  his  thin  shoulders  the  friar 
shook  himself  free,  and  rounded  on  his  assailant. 

"  'Tis  all  of  a  piece  !  "  he  thundered,  shifting  his 
anathema  in  general  to  de  Casera  in  particular; 
"  God's  house  shut  against  the  people  and  God's 
messenger  mishandled  before  them.  Small  wonder 
that  the  curse  has  fallen.  What  saith  the  Word  ? 
Repent  quickly,  or  I  will  come  and  take  thy 
candlestick  from  its  place.  Already  I  see " 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.         211 

"Softly,  man,  softly,"  said  de  Casera.  "We 
know  our  own  sorrows  better  than  thou  canst  tell 
them  to  us.  If  thou  art  here  to  bless  and  comfort 
the  poor  folk,  good  and  well,  bide  here  and  do  your 
Master's  vrork ;  but  if  thou  art  here  to  curse  and 
add  evil  to  evil,  why,  the  devil's  in  it,  but  we  cannot 
send  thee  packing,  so  must  close  thy  mouth.  No 
ranting,  priest,  no  ranting ;  the  people  are  like  tow, 
and  we  dare  risk  no  sparks." 

He  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  the  barred  door- 
way. Like  many  another  of  his  cloth,  the  Francis- 
can had  a  larger  notion  of  his  mission  upon  earth. 
Round  he  swung  to  the  growing  crowd,  and  for  a 
moment  there  was  silence.  Then,  shaking  back  his 
cowl,  he  flung  out  his  arms  and  stood  staring  down 
at  the  mob,  like  a  death's-head  set  on  a  black  cross. 

"  Hear  him !  "  he  cried,  "  hear  him,  ye  mis- 
shepherded  sheep.  Speak  comfort,  saith  he !  Who 
can  dare  speak  comfort  till  your  sin  be  cleansed  ? 
Not  I,  who  am  the  messenger  and  the  servant  of  the 
truth.  These  be  your  guides,  these  be  your  teachers ; 
a  spawn  of  Satan  that  would  close  the  mouths  of 
God's  anointed  priest  as  they  have  closed  His 
house.  Your  altars  are  dark,  the  perpetual  sacrifice 
unoffered,  the  incense  of  your  prayers  no  more 
ascends  from  the  holy  place  unto  the  Lord,  and  ye 
are  accursed,  accursed.  Your  dead  lie  in  swathes 
to  the  reaper  because  of  your  offences,  and  ye  go 
down  to  the  pit  unhouseled,  unassoiled.  Hark ! 
hark !  "  Outward  he  flung  an  open  hand,  setting 
the  other  behind  his  ear,  while  his  eyes  glowed  in 


212  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

their  caverns.     "Alas  !  for  you  !  ye  brands  of  the 
burning;  I  can  hear  the  very  roar  of  hell." 

The  five  deep  had  grown  to  triple  five,  and  on 
either  side  the  flanks  of  the  crowd  had  drawn 
round  de  Casera  and  the  monk,  so  that  they  stood 
in  the  centre  of  a  much  curved  crescent  and  yet 
with  a  clear  space  surrounding  them.  Lashed  from 
its  ingrained  stolidity  by  the  monk's  denunciations, 
murmurs  and  groans  rose  from  the  throng  in  in- 
creasing volume  as  the  quick  infectious  sympathy 
of  numbers  asserted  itself,  murmurs  against  de 
Casera  and  all  he  stood  for,  groans  that  were  inar- 
ticulate prayer  and  inarticulate  confession  of  sin  in 
one.  Women  whose  faces  were  already  white  with 
sorrowful  vigils  grew  yet  more  ghastly  as  the  new 
terrors  of  perdition  seized  upon  them ;  men,  con- 
science-stricken and  vaguely  fearful  of  they  knew 
not  what,  hid  their  alarm  in  a  half-simulated  wrath 
that  was  presently  to  slip  into  an  unreasoning  lust 
for  blood.  The  very  uncomprehending  children 
caught  the  contagion,  and  shrieked  and  wept  as 
they  clung  to  their  mothers'  gowns.  The  beast 
that  for  ever  bides  in  the  French  peasant  was 
awake  and  making  ready  for  a  spring,  and  was  the 
more  dangerous  because  fear  was  the  goad  rather 
than  wrath.  The  Seigneurs  had  reason  to  know 
him  well !  Let  him  once  wet  his  chaps  with  blood, 
let  the  madness  of  slaughter  once  fully  possess  him, 
and  neither  love,  nor  loyalty,  nor  tradition,  nor 
authority  would  hold  him  back,  nor  innocent 
womanhood  be  spared.  Denise  de  Lhoeac  would 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.         213 

go  down  with  the  rest,  her  service  and  her  degree 
alike  forgotten.  All  this  de  Casera  knew  well,  and 
as  the  turmoil  round  him  swelled  in  volume  he 
groaned  aloud  in  his  impotence  and  despair. 

Meanwhile  the  Franciscan  had  pushed  forward 
his  advantage.  In  impassioned  speech,  indignant, 
wrathful,  pleading,  and  afire  with  glowing  rhetoric 
such  as  might  have  fallen  from  Peter  the  Hermit 
preaching  the  Crusade,  he  appealed  to  every  senti- 
ment in  turn — faith  toward  God,  obedience  to  the 
church,  loyalty  to  religion,  divine  anger  and  judg- 
ment to  come,  the  terrors  of  hell,  death  present  and 
death  eternal,  shame,  penitence,  damnation  ;  and 
as  he  thundered  forth  his  denunciations  and  anathe- 
mas he  beat  upon  his  breast,  frothing  at  the  mouth 
in  the  frenzy  of  his  wild  outburst. 

A  born  orator,  his  voice  followed  the  swiftly 
changing  tenor  of  each  thought,  and  to  every  shift 
of  mood  he  swayed  the  people  so  that  they  rang 
responsive  as  harp-strings  to  the  trembling  of  the 
wind.  He  had  Saint  Agnes  in  a  leash,  and  where- 
soever he  hulload  there  they  would  go.  They 
roared,  they  sobbed,  they  surged,  they  shook,  they 
groaned,  they  wept,  they  cursed,  according  as  it 
pleased  him  ;  and  in  the  end  those  upon  the  higher 
steps  fell  upon  their  knees,  mumbling.  There  it 
was  that  instinctively  the  orator  became  the  actor, 
shifting  from  the  one  art  unconsciously  to  the  other. 
The  emotion  of  the  audience  recoiled  upon  the 
speaker.  Stopping  abruptly  in  a  half-said  sentence, 
he  stared  down  at  the  convulsed  women  kneel- 


214  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

ing  at  his  feet,  then  cried  out  with  a  shaking 
voice — 

"  Right,  my  children,  right ;  let  us  pray  that  if 
possible  this  sin  may  be  forgiven." 

Turning,  he  ran,  two  stairs  at  a  stride,  up  the 
steps,  crossed  the  open  space  at  the  top  that  led  to 
the  church,  and  flung  himself  down  on  his  knees  at 
the  shut  door,  his  head  thrown  back  and  his  hands 
raised  in  an  agony  of  intercession.  Behind  him 
there  was  the  flawless  silence  which  follows  the 
elevation  of  the  host,  and  of  the  entire  throng  de 
Casera  alone  stood  upright,  disconcerted  and  un- 
determined how  to  act. 

He  was  in  the  cleft  of  a  stick,  and  the  pinch 
upon  him  was  a  sore  one.  That  the  mad  blasphemy, 
for  blasphemy  he  held  it  to  be,  would  at  the  last 
end  in  murder  and  outrage  for  the  love  of  God  he 
made  no  doubt,  even  as  he  knew  that  the  man  who 
thought  to  stay  them  would,  at  the  first,  at  least 
draw  the  rage  down  upon  his  own  head.  But  as  he 
watched  the  strained  excitement  of  the  mob,  and 
saw  how  the  terrors  of  religion  and  an  inconsequent 
remorse  jointly  possessed  it,  the  danger  of  leaving 
the  fanatic  to  complete  his  work  seemed  the  greater. 
The  fuel  would  blaze,  that  was  plain,  but  that  the 
fuel  grew  drier  with  every  lurid  sentence  was  also 
plain.  If  there  must  be  outrage,  it  was  better  that 
it  should  have  a  clear  purpose,  and  perhaps  the 
slaying  of  the  one  would  save  the  many,  though  to 
Francois  de  Casera  the  many  stood  for  Denise  de 
Lhoeac  and  no  more. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.         215 

Wheeling  in  his  turn,  he  followed  the  monk  up 
the  stairway,  and,  even  while  he  knelt,  caught  him 
for  the  second  time  roughly  by  the  collar. 

"Whom  dost  thou  serve?  "  he  cried,  wrenching 
him  round  so  that  he  faced  the  crowd  across  his 
shoulder,  "  Satan,  or  the  God  of  peace,  that  thou 
drivest  these  to  madness  with  thy  intolerance?" 

"  Peace  !  "  echoed  the  other,  staring  him  back,  no 
whit  afraid.  "  What  hast  thou  to  do  with  peace  ? 
There  is  no  peace  to  the  wicked,  saith  my  God. 
What !  you  have  barred  the  door  of  peace  against 
the  people,  and  when  they  make  its  threshold  a 
sanctuary  you  would  dare  to  profane  even  this  poor 
shadow  of  holy  things  ?  The  abomination  of 
desolation  standeth  where  it  ought  not  to  stand, 
and  if  the  Lord  had  not  sent  me  to  these  people 
they  would  have  been  even  as  Sodom  and  as 
Gomorrah." 

Up  again  went  the  trembling  hands  that  knew  no 
tremor  of  fear,  and  the  sonorous  voice  broke  out 
afresh,  so  ringing  clear  that  every  syllable  rolled 
unslurred  to  the  furthest  corner  of  the  square — 

44  Judgment,  oh  Lord  God,  judgment  upon  these 
who  would  impiously  thrust  themselves  betwixt 
Thee  and  Thy  penitent  people.  Shoot  out  Thy 
arrows,  oh  God,  and  destroy  them  ;  cast  forth  Thy 
lightning  and  scatter  them  ;  send  Thy  strength 
from  above  and  deliver  me  from  the  hand  of  strange 
children,  whose  right  hand  is  a  right  hand  of  false- 
hood." 

"  Be   silent,  fool ! "  cried  de  Casera  between  his 


216  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

clenched  teeth,  and  shaking  the  monk  with  such  a 
good  will  that  force  compelled  what  command  had 
failed  to  bring  about,  and  for  very  chattering  of 
teeth  the  wild,  imprecatory  prayer  was  cut  short. 
"  And  you,  fools  like  himself,  to  be  moved  by  his 
madness,  stand  back,  lest  between  you  ye  force  me 
to  give  him  a  cause  for  cursing.  Stand  back,  I  say. 
What !  ye  will  not  ?  Then,  in  God's  name  come 
on,  and  let  this  scoundrel  monk  have  the  murder  on 
his  soul  he  so  hungers  after." 

As  de  Casera  seized  the  monk  for  the  second 
time  the  ejaculations  and  muttered  groans  of  the 
crowd  swelled  into  a  noisy  clamour.  Single  voices 
took  form  and  called  out  menaces'  across  the  babel, 
and  with  every  minute  the  uproar  grew  in  vol- 
ume. Then  it  was  that  Denise  had  followed  Roger 
Patcham  in  his  flight  across  the  grass.  But  as  the 
monk's  trumpet-tones  cut  through  the  hubbub  the 
inertness  of  the  mob  woke  to  action,  and  the  packed 
throng  swayed  forward  and  upward  with  the  one  im- 
pulse. It  was  as  if  the  lever  of  some  vast  machine 
which  filled  the  square  from  limit  to  limit  had  been 
touched,  forcing  the  whole  mass  into  sudden 
activity.  Up  the  line  swept,  beating  down  in  its 
advance  the  weak  and  those  who  had  fallen  upon 
their  knees,  passing  over  them  as  a  river  that  has 
burst  its  banks  sweeps  across  and  covers  the  stones 
that  lie  in  its  line  of  progress,  upward  to  the  level 
space  at  the  top  of  the  stairway,  and  there  the  tide 
stayed,  its  line  heaving  and  undulating  with  the 
pressure  from  behind.  De  Casera's  sword  was  out, 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.          217 

and  for  all  its  madness  Saint  Agnes  was  not  of  the 
stuff  that  makes  martyrs. 

It  was  while  he  thus  kept  the  crowd  at  bay,  his 
left  hand  still  grasping  the  collar  of  the  monk's 
cassock,  that  Denise,  panting  with  haste  and  an 
anxious  dread  of  evil,  reached  the  fringe  of  the 
throng  in  the  road  below. 

"  Make  way,"  she  cried  sharply,  laying  a  firm 
hand  on  the  nearest  shoulder.  "  What !  is  the 
pestilence  not  enough  that  you  must  needs  add 
murder  to  it  ?  Shame  upon  you,  men !  Is  this 
your  thanks  to  the  man  who  risked  his  life  for  you  ? 
Shame  on  you,  too,  wives  and  mothers !  Where 
is  your  womanhood  that  you  can  thus  egg  these 
cowards  on  to  murder?  Are  you  all  alike  turned 
to  brute  beasts  ?  Make  way  for  Denise  de  Lhoeac." 

"  For  God's  sake,  turn  back,  Mademoiselle,"  cried 
de  Casera  through  the  partial  silence  that  followed 
her  words.  Saint  Agnes  had  not  as  yet  flung  off 
the  spell  of  old  authority,  nor  had  its  stolid  wits 
quite  conceived  that  its  mistress  shared  the  mal- 
edictions levelled  at  the  stranger.  "The  folk  are 
mad  with  this  fool's  girding  at  them,  and  will  do 
you  a  hurt." 

"  By  God's  grace,"  answered  she,  looking  swiftly 
up  at  him,  and  then  as  swiftly  back  over  the  expec- 
tant sea  of  faces,  "  I  am  here  to  cure  their  madness. 
As  to  hurt,  there  was  never  yet  a  time  when  a 
Lhoeac  feared  Saint  Agnes.  Is  it  not  so,  my 
children  ? "  And,  indeed,  she  was  right,  though 
not  altogether  in  the  sense  the  people  understood. 


218  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

It    took   more   than    even   a   word-drunken    Saint 
Agnes  to  frighten  a  Lhoeac. 

III. 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  pause.  De  Casera 
was  right,  and  the  madness  was  there,  though  force 
of  custom  held  it  in  check.  Then  a  woman's  voice 
said — 

"  Let  her  pass,  an'  God  bless  her  !  She  nursed 
my  Jean  to  life  when  every  soul  turned  from  him. 
The  saints  keep  you  safe,  Mamzelle." 

"  And  so  they  will,"  answered  Denise.  "  Make 
way,  my  children,  make  way." 

To  right  and  left,  with  much  struggle  and  stress 
because  of  the  thronging,  the  crowd  parted,  leaving 
a  narrow  laneway  clear  to  the  open  space  at  the 
steps'  head.  Up  this  Denise  passed — erect  and 
stern  of  face,  and  with  a  faint  flush  colouring  the 
overnight  pallor  of  her  cheeks.  That  de  Casera 
was  still  unharmed  she  saw  and  thanked  God,  but 
she  was  under  no  illusions.  The  true  trial  of 
strength  was  yet  to  come,  and  if  victory  lay  with 
the  Cordelier,  or  even  the  appearance  of  victory, 
the  problem  that  had  held  her  sleepless  would 
have  a  swift  solution.  Then  the  crowd  closed  in 
again,  compact  as  before,  and  shutting  out  Captain 
Roger  Patcham  ;  nor,  in  the  then  temper  of  the 
people,  did  the  Englishman  dare  seek  to  force  a 
passage.  For  the  time  the  cue  lay  with  another. 

For  all  that  Denise  was  a  woman  and  a  lover  of 
peace,  the  instinct  born  of  many  generations  of 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.         219 

men  of  war  taught  her  boldness  and  the  worth  of 
the  first  stroke.  A  crowd  loves  success,  and  its 
sympathies  follow  victory.  On  the  topmost  step 
she  halted  and  faced  the  mob,  now  hushed  except 
for  that  indefinable  rustle  inseparable  from  packed 
humanity  upon  its  feet. 

"  Back,  back ! "  she  cried  motioning  with  an 
open  hand  as  she  spoke.  "  We  have  need  of  greater 
room.  Let  no  man  come  within  three  steps  of  the 
terrace.  And  you,  Monsieur  de  Casera,  put  up 
your  sword.  We  are  here  in  Saint  Agnes  to  save 
life,  and  not  to  take  it.  Also,  loose  the  monk  ;  if  he 
has  done  wrong  he  must  abide  by  wrong,  but  the 
punishment  is  my  affair,  not  yours.  We  admit  no 
right  of  justice  in  Lhoeac  save  those  of  the  King 
and  Denise  de  Lhoeac :  is  that  not  so,  my  children  ?  " 
But  abstract  authority  was  nothing  to  Saint  Agnes, 
and  the  crowd  answered  her  never  a  word. 

"  Now,  Master  Monk,"  she  went  on,  her  clear 
voice  growing  sterner,  "  what  brawl  is  this  thou 
hast  raised  ?  God  grant  thou  and  thy  hot  head's 
folly  have  not  brought  a  grievous  wrong  on  my 
people." 

Released  by  de  Casera,  the  Franciscan  had  risen, 
and  now,  his  nervous  fingers  twisting  the  cords  of 
his  disordered  robe,  he  faced  Denise.  A  dramatic 
picture  they  made,  these  three  on  the  clear  sweep 
of  the  terrace,  with  the  flat,  unsightly,  weather- 
stained  wall  of  the  church  as  a  background  to  throw 
them  into  relief — a  picture  in  sober  tones  and  yet 
with  its  artistic  contrasts,  the  pure  white  of  the 


220  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

woman's  garments  finding  a  sharp  foil  in  the  gaunt 
friar's  black  frock.  As  to  de  Casera,  he  had  drawn 
to  one  side  with  undisguised  reluctance,  and  stood 
watching  the  monk  sharply,  his  scabbard  caught 
up  in  his  left  hand  so  that  the  hilt  lay  frankly 
ready  to  his  right.  For  the  moment  Denise  was 
mistress,  but  let  affairs  take  a  threatening  twist, 
and  he  would  play  the  master,  if  it  were  but  for 
three  strokes. 

"  The  wrong  was  here  before  me,"  answered  the 
monk  harshly,  smiting  the  church  door  with  the 
flat  of  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  so  that  the  emptiness 
within  rang  with  a  hollow  boom.  "  The  wrong  lies 
there — in  shutting  out  God  from  the  people." 

"  Neither  I,  nor  you,  Priest,  can  do  that,"  replied 
Denise  :  "  no,  nor  yet  your  church,  bishops,  car- 
dinals, and Ah  !  I  had  forgotten.  What  is  the 

message  from  the  Cardinal  de  Saint-Seurin  ?  Thou 
art  here  from  him  ?  Eh,  is  it  not  so  ?  Come,  Monk, 
the  truth,  the  truth.  What  saith  his  Eminence  ?" 

"  I  am  no  man's  messenger,  and  know  nought  of 
him  of  whom  you  speak.  As  to  the  truth,  that  you 
shall  have,  and  bitter  you  shall  find  it." 

"  Presently,  presently.  Swear  to  me  first  that 
thou  hast  had  no  dealings  with  Henri  de  Lhoeac, 
Bishop  of  Libourne  and  Cardinal  of  Saint-Seurin, 
that  thou  art  not  here  at  his  instance,  nor  for  his 
purposes  covert  or  open.  Mark  now,  there  is  no 
room  there  for  a  quibble." 

"  I  am  here  upon  my  Master's  business,  at  his 
instance  and  for  his  purposes.  Bishops?  cardinals? 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.          221 

What  are  they  !  Again  I  say  I  know  nothing  of  him 
of  whom  you  speak." 

"  Swear,  man,  swear." 

"  A  Christian  man's  word  is  his  oath,  but  since 
you  will  have  it  so,  I  swear  it." 

Lifting  the  bronze  cross  that  hung  upon  his  breast, 
he  kissed  it,  going  down  reverently  on  his  knees  as 
he  did  so. 

"  That  you  are  honest  makes  for  peace  for  us  all, 
since  your  bite  is  without  venom,"  said  Denise. 
"  Let  us  cry  back.  Briefly,  now,  how  canst  thou,  a 
man  of  God,  justify  this  brawl?  " 

"  Because  I  am  what  I  am."  Rising  to  his  feet, 
he  faced  her  as  he  had  faced  Saint  Agnes  at  the 
first,  and  Denise  was  conscious  that  a  sound  like  the 
sighing  of  the  wind  passed  across  the  silent  crowd. 
It  was  the  people  drawing  in  their  breath  to  listen. 
"  What  ?  In  the  time  of  His  affliction  you  put  a 
slight  on  the  mercy  of  God,  you  shut  Him  out  from 
part  or  lot  in  the  healing  of  Saint  Agnes,  and  when 
I,  His " 

"  For  shame,  Monk  !  for  shame  !  Can  bars  and 
bolts  shut  out  God?  I  tell  thee,  man,  He  has  been 
present  here  in  Saint  Agnes  these  last  weeks  as  He 
never  was  behind  that  shut  door  since  the  wall  went 
up.  Oh,  you  stare,  you  stare,  but  it  may  well  be 
that  you  have  so  long  worshipped  the  God  of 
Judgment  that  you  have  forgotten  the  God  of  Love 
and  Mercy,  and  so  know  little  of  His  ways  for  all 
your  friar's  frock.  Nay,  nay,  nay,  it  is  not  always 
the  priest's  turn  to  preach.  To  hearken  to  you  one 


222  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

would  think  that  the  laying  on  of  hands  gave 
the  gift  of  tongues,  and  so,  by  my  faith,  it  would 
seem  to  do  for  wordiness,  though  not  always  for 
sound  sense.  This  is  my  turn,  or  rather,"  and  a 
half-smile  flickered  into  the  gravity  of  her  face, 
shone  in  her  eyes  an  instant  and  then  died  out, 
leaving  it  as  intent,  stern,  and  sorrowful  as  before, 
"  I  shall  let  the  people  judge.  For  the  most  part, 
poor  souls,  they  have  to  listen  whether  they  choose 
or  not,  while  your  high  holinesses  in  the  pulpit 
pound  and  pelt  them  at  your  long  liking.  Which 
shall  speak,  my  children,  Denise  de  Lhoeac  or  this 
black  monk  of  the  sour  face,  who  cometh  from  we 
know  not  where  ?  Denise  de  Lhoeac  ?  Thou  art 
answered,  Master  Monk,  though  I  little  thought  the 
day  would  come  when  I  should  preach  to  the 
church  !  " 

Twice  the  Franciscan  had  sought  to  break  in 
upon  her,  but  Denise  was  in  no  common  mood, 
and,  man  and  priest  though  he  was,  she  talked  him 
down.  None  knew  better  than  she  that  she  was 
fighting  for  the  life  of  the  man  she  loved  ;  for, 
though  the  people  were  quiet  beyond  her  expecta- 
tion, the  ominous  indrawn  breath  as  the  monk  had 
answered  was  both  a  threat  and  a  warning.  In 
such  a  case,  and  for  such  a  stake,  it  would  take 
more  than  one  man  to  silence  a  woman's  tongue, 
and  the  man  with  the  robe  had  been  beaten  with  his 
own  weapons.  But  once  Saint  Agnes  had  declared 
for  her,  she  paused  for  breath,  half  hoping  the 
monk  would  persist.  She  knew  the  people  to  their 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.         223 

furthest  hair's  breadth,  and  from  defence  would 
have  turned  to  attack,  confident  they  would  follow 
her  as  blindly  as  a  bare  half-hour  before  they  had 
followed  the  stranger.  But  the  monk  was  either 
too  astute  or  too  honest  to  take  advantage  of  her 
silence,  for,  though  his  mobile  face  showed  the  heat 
of  his  impatience,  he  held  his  peace. 

"  If  thou  art  without  sin,"  she  began  slowly,  and 
looking  the  Cordelier  full  in  the  face  the  while, 
"  then  fling  thy  stone  at  us.  If  not,  who  gave  thee 
leave  to  judge?  What  dost  thou,  in  thy  brief  hour 
here,  know  of  the  sorrows  of  St.  Agnes?  Of  its 
dangers  thou  knowest  somewhat  I  grant,  and  know- 
ing them,  thou  art  a  brave  man  to  be  here  at  all ; 
but  of  its  sorrows,  its  bitterness  of  heart,  its  mourn- 
ing, its  burden  of  death  and  loss,  the  humbleness  of 
its  heart  before  its  God,  thou  knowest  nothing — 
nothing.  Are  we  sinners  above  all  the  sinners  in 
France  because  this  has  fallen  upon  us?  Then  we 
were  sinners  with  our  altars  lit,  and  in  their  dark- 
ness we  have  repented.  More  than  that,  Monk ; 
our  repentance  has  been  accepted.  The  plague  was 
stayed,  and  if  it  come  upon  us  again  it  will  be  thy 
doing,  with  thy  black  creed  of  terror  and  judgment 
scaring  these  poor  sheep  until  they  were  ready  to 
turn  upon  the  hand  that  tended  them.  Thy  blame, 
I  say,  thy  doing,  and  may  God  forgive  thee,  Monk, 
for  it  will  go  hard  with  me  that  I  should."  Round 
she  turned  to  the  mob,  now  a  packed  slope  of  faces 
that  curved  in  a  great  bow  across  the  level  of  the 
square.  "  And  you,  my  children,  how  have  we 


224  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

failed  you  in  your  hour  of  trial  that  you  should 
fail  us  at  the  first  cry  of  a  stranger  ?  Even  a  dog 
has  more  faithfulness  than  that.  Is  it  priestliness 
that  sways  you  !  What  then  of  the  eleven  that  died 
for  Saint  Agnes — noble  souls  who  for  your  sakes 
took  no  account  of  themselves,  and  stand  this  day 
before  the  eternal  throne,  faithful  witnesses  alike 
in  life  and  death  ?  Were  they  not  priests  of  God  ? 
Aye,  by  my  faith,  were  they,  and  nearer  to  His  heart 
than  this  black  Franciscan  with  his  loveless  creed  of 
terror  and  merciless  damnation.  Was  it  his  words 
swayed  you?  What?  For  a  fanatic's  outburst 
could  you  so  soon  forget  the  dark  days  and  darker 
nights  of  death  and  sorrow  through  which  we 
watched  and  toiled  together,  striving  with  the 
destroyer,  wrestling  with  him  even  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  grave  if  so  be  that  we  could  snatch 
even  one  from  his  hand  ?  I  say  it  not  to  boast, 
but  to  shame  you  ;  is  there  a  childless  mother  here 
we  have  not  comforted,  a  stricken  husband,  a 
widowed  wife,  a  lonely  grandsire  ?  Even  when 
terror  snapped  the  ties  of  years,  and  love  itself 
grew  fearful,  were  we  afraid  ?  When  the  parched 
throat  called  and  love  and  kin  had  fled,  who 
answered  !  Who  spoke  God's  peace  to  the  trem- 
bling soul  and  by  God's  grace  brought  the  blessed 
life  itself  to  the  very  closing  gates  of  death  ?  Who 
healed  the  broken-hearted,  soothed  the  sorrowing, 
shared  the  grievous  burden  of  the  heavy-laden  ? 
Did  one  mourn  and  we  not  also  mourn?  Did  one 
suffer  and  we  not  share  the  pain  ?  Did  one  die 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.         225 

and  we  not  weep  ?  Oh,  my  children,  my  children, 
have  I  taken  you  to  my  heart  to  be  thrust  from  you 
for  the  first  weaver  of  windy  words  that  comes  your 
way  ?  I  have  loved  you,  I  have  striven  for  you  ; 
God  knows  how  I  have  striven.  If  I  have  failed  to 
win  you,  if  all  I  dare  love  turns  from  me,  then, 
Monk,  have  your  way,  and  let  there  be  an  end  to 
Denise  de  Lhoeac." 

Slowly  the  stolid  curiosity  of  the  crowd  had  worn 
off.  Murmurs  and  sibilant  whispers  eddied  here 
and  there,  at  first  subdued  but  minute  by  minute 
growing  in  strength  and  fervour,  until  at  the  last  the 
mob  swayed  to  her  words  as  a  ripe  cornfield  sways 
to  the  wind  ;  the  pinched  and  careworn  faces  gloom- 
ing or  brightening  as  the  varying  purposes  of  her 
words  were  driven  home.  At  the  last  there  was  an 
instant's  pause,  a  long  indrawing  of  breath,  and  the 
beginning  of  a  surging  rush  for  the  topmost  step. 

But  the  monk  was  quicker  than  they.  He  had 
stood  with  arms  folded,  staring  at  her  from  under 
bent  brows,  a  statue  of  rebuke,  lifeless  except  for 
the  twitching  of  the  thin  lips  and  the  flush  deepening 
to  an  angry  red  on  the  sallow,  high-boned  cheeks. 
Now  the  statue  awoke. 

"  Words,  words,  words !  "  he  cried,  striding  for- 
ward to  the  very  lip  of  the  uppermost  step  and 
flinging  out  his  open  hands  as  if  to  thrust  back  the 
throng.  "  Now  hearken  unto  me,  ye  stiffnecked  and 
rebellious,  ye  who  worship  the  creature  rather  than 
the  Creator.  Whilst  ye  were  blind  and  silly  sheep, 
having  your  understanding  darkened,  and  ignorantly 


226  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

following  false  shepherds,  I  spared  you.  Upon  them 
was  my  curse,  on  them  alone  ;  and  yet  not  mine,  but 
the  curse  of  Him  that  sent  me  to  preach  the  truth. 
But  now  that  ye  are  partakers  in  their  wickedness, 
now  that  ye  call  evil  good  and  good  evil,  now  that 
ye  strengthen  them  in  their  sin  and  say,  '  So  would 
we  have  it,'  I  turn  the  curse  upon  you.  Hearken, 
everyone  of  you.  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  'The  heart 
of  this  people  is  made  fat,  their  ears  heavy,  and  they 
have  shut  their  eyes  ;  lest  they  should  see  with  their 
eyes,  and  hear  with  their  ears,  and  understand  with 
their  heart,  and  I  should  heal  them.  Therefore  this 
plague  shall  not  pass  from  you  until  the  cities  be 
wasted  without  inhabitant,  and  the  houses  without 
man,  and  the  land  be  utterly  desolate.'  Upon  your 
young  men  and  your  maidens,  upon  your  children, 
upon  your  very  babes  and  sucklings,  have  ye  drawn 
down " 

Denise  heard  no  more.  With  every  nerve  a-tingle 
with  wrath  and  indignation  she  was  already  half-way 
across  the  space  separating  her  from  the  Franciscan, 
when  a  hand  caught  her  by  the  arm,  and  Roger 
Patcham's  voice  whispered  excitedly  in  her  ear — 

"  See,  see,  see  !  Did  I  not  say  it  would  come  ?  If 
that  be  a  type  of  the  rest,  then  God  have  mercy  on 
Saint  Agnes,  for  the  bigot's  prophecy  is  like  to  come 
true.  Look;  watch  Jeanne  la  Blanche,  three  steps 
down  in  the  crowd.  I  have  seen  many  a  one 
smitten  these  two  months  past,  but  never  one  like 
that !  Poor  soul !  poor  soul !  May  God  pity 
her!" 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.          227 

The  monk's  sudden  stride  forward  had  stayed  the 
advance  of  the  human  machine,  and  he  was  in  a 
fair  way  to  twist  the  vacillation  how  he  chose,  when 
there  came  such  an  interruption  as  cut  short  even 
his  fiery  declamation — a  woman's  scream,  shrill, 
high-pitched,  and  tremulous  with  pain.  Nor  was  it 
one  cry  only,  but  cry  on  cry  as  fast  as  the  gaping 
breath  could  let  loose  the  sound,  and  broken  only 
by  the  hoarse  filling  of  the  lungs ;  piercing,  acute, 
mortal  fear  and  mortal  agony  in  one.  For  a  moment 
the  throng  stood,  tiptoed  and  staring ;  then,  as  if  to 
avoid  a  thunderbolt,  it  split  apart,  fighting,  tearing, 
struggling  in  a  bestial  terror,  heedless  who  suffered 
in  the  desperate  backward  rush  if  only  a  yard  of 
space  could  be  set  between  them  and  the  screaming 
wretch  that  staggered  foaming  in  the  wedge-like 
opening.  Round  she  spun,  groping  and  pawing  at 
the  air  like  a  shot  wolf,  round  and  round,  the  breath 
coming  harder  and  harsher  with  every  turn  ;  then,  of 
a  sudden,  her  knees  gave  way  and  she  fell  in  aheap 
upon  the  steps,  moaning. 

Flinging  off  Roger  Patcham,  Denise  laid  a  shaking 
hand  upon  the  monk's  shoulder. 

'  Thy  doing,"  she  cried,  pointing  downwards, 
"  thy  doing;  thou  hast  smitten  the  body,  and  now, 
if  thou  art  God's  servant,  heal  the  spirit  if  thou  canst 
ere  it  be  too  late.  She  has  ten  minutes  more  of  this 
world;  ten  minutes,  Monk,  ten  minutes  and  no 
more.  Take  me  away,  Father  Roger,  for  I  am  sick, 
sick  and  weary  of  my  life." 

"  Come,  my  lamb,  come,"  and  he  took  her  in  his 


228  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

arms  as  a  father  might  a  child.  "  Plague  take  him  for 
a  meddling  priest!  Did  I  not  say  evil  would  come 
of  all  this  ?  Monsieur  de  Casera,  clear  a  way  for  us  ; 
Mademoiselle  is  out-worn,  and  no  marvel." 

And  as  Denise  turned  to  leave  the  terrace  she  saw 
the  Franciscan,  crucifix  in  hand,  stooping  over  the 
dying  woman,  her  head  resting  on  his  knees  and  his 
mouth,  regardless  of  contagion,  bent  to  within  an 
inch  of  her  ear  to  whisper  such  comfort  as  he  might. 
That  he  had  the  courage  of  two  worlds  was  clear, 
and  at  the  sight  of  his  eager,  earnest  face  the  woman 
in  her  heart  half-forgave  him. 

That  day  and  night  Saint  Agnes  had  to  fight  its 
battle  without  aid  from  its  Suzeraine,  and  it  was  a 
battle  to  the  death.    Unstrung  in  nerve,  and  wearied 
alike  in  body  and  mind,  Denise  passed  the  hours  in 
the  shade  of  her  tent,  an  easy  prey  to  a  bitter  spirit 
of  resentment  and  unrest.     That  the  world  of  love 
was  awry  she  had  known.     Henri  de  Lhoeac  had 
left  her  no  straight  path,  and  hers  was  not  the  nature 
to  be  content  with  crooked  ways  let  their  windings 
be   never  so  smooth  and  flowery  ;  but  that  lower 
love  of  the  people,  that  love  which  is  part  obedience, 
part  loyalty,  part  trust,  which  is  love  and  yet  not 
love — that  she  had  thought  she  held  sure  and  beyond 
all   theft.     But    now  even  that  was  gone,  and  for 
all  the  humming  life  that  was  round  about  her  she 
was  conscious  of  a  dreary  loneliness,  an  isolation  to 
which  no  love  came  nor  could  come,  and  all  that 
the  world  held  was  a  sternness  of  duty  and  self- 
sacrifice.     A  bitter  thought  that,  for  let  moralists 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION          229 

preach  the  greatness  of  the  high,  dry  levels  of  life  as 
they  may,  and  let  their  maxims  be  as  truthful  as 
they  are  admirable,  duty  is  cold  food  for  a  human 
soul  to  feed  upon. 

But  as  the  day  drew  to  night,  and  the  twilight 
brought  its  blessings  of  coolness  to  the  parched  earth, 
the  vigour  of  life  and  youth  within  her  asserted  itself. 
Blessed  recreative  power  of  youth  !  Broken  hopes 
are  pieced  together  again,  tarnished  ideals  polished 
to  a  fresh  refulgence,  snapping  cords  knotted  anew, 
and  the  piecing,  the  polishing,  the  knotting,  is 
viewed  as  complacently  as  if  there  had  been  neither 
stain  nor  snap.  Out  of  the  shattered  wreckage  of 
the  day  Denise  set  herself  to  build  afresh  her  scheme 
of  life,  and  in  the  midst  of  her  building  Mother 
Nature  came  to  her  aid,  and  that  night  she  slept  as  a 
child  sleeps. 

It  was  a  new  world  into  which  she  stepped  next 
morning,  so  swiftly  had  the  alchemy  of  rest 
wrought  upon  her  wholesome  nature — a  world  not 
without  shadows  but  with  the  sun  still  high  in  the 
heavens  and  a  warmth  that  penetrated  even  to  the 
shade.  The  sorrows  of  Saint  Agnes  were  no  less, 
but  her  strength  was  greater,  and  so  the  burden  to 
be  borne  failed  to  crush  as  it  had  crushed  in  the 
hour  of  her  depression.  Now  that  she  was  mistress 
of  herself  she  had  no  fear  of  Francois  de  Casera. 
His  secret  she  knew,  hers  he  should  never  know  ; 
and  being  a  woman,  she  could  trust  herself  to  hide 
th.it  which  he,  being  a  man,  failed  to  conceal. 
They  are  consummate  hypocrites  at  times,  these 


230  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

gentle  best  of  woman,  and  can  play  a  part  with  such 
fidelity  as  to  deceive  even  themselves.  She  had 
wrestled  and  overcome,  she  told  herself — that  which 
she  had  thrown  she  would  keep  under  ;  and  in  her 
belief  she  was  strong. 

De  Casera  she  met  with  a  firm  clasp  of  the  hand 
and  a  frank  unconscious  smile  that  quickly  passed 
into  a  grave  concern.  "Tell  me  the  worst,"  she 
said.  "  By  your  eyes  I  see  it  has  been  a  nuit 
blanche  for  Saint  Agnes,  and  yet,  in  face  of  the 
danger,  there  did  I  play  traitor  and  desert  my  post. 
Oh,  Monsieur  de  Casera,  I  am  ashamed." 

"  It  was  not  you  who  played  traitor,  but  nature 
who  cried  for  quarter,"  he  answered,  with  a  poor 
attempt  at  lightness.  "  Not  the  least  of  the  night's 
trials  has  been  the  fear  that  the  bravest  soul  of  us 
all  had  dared  overmuch  and  suffered  for  her  daring. 
Believe  me,  Mademoiselle,  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
too  great  courage." 

"  Alas  !  that  so  much  good  sympathy  was 
thrown  away,"  replied  she,  the  smile  struggling 
back  to  her  eyes  an  instant  and  her  face  flushing. 
Let  her  determination  be  as  stern  as  it  might,  his 
solicitude  was  very  sweet.  "  It  was  sheer  waste, 
Monsieur,  sheer  waste.  I  am  ashamed  of  my 
weakness,  and  so  the  less  said  of  last  night  the 
better  except  what  touches  Saint  Agnes.  What  of 
my  people  ?  " 

"  You  asked  the  worst,  and  no  words  can  soften 
it.  Lhoeac  is  the  poorer  by  five,  and  there  remain 
nineteen  smitten." 


THE  HOUSE  OK  RELIGION.         231 

"  Five  dead ! "  she  wailed,  wincing  back  as  if 
from  a  blow  ;  "  five  ?  five  ?  and  I  sleeping,  uncar- 
ing. Oh  !  my  people,  my  people !  " 

"  Five,"  he  answered,  setting  his  teeth  and  hold- 
ing himself  as  with  a  leash  lest  he  play  the  fool  and 
take  her  in  his  arms  to  comfort  her.  Little  wish 
had  she  for  his  comforting  he  thought  bitterly,  and 
it  would  be  the  act  of  a  rascal  to  do  aught  that 
would  add  to  her  troubles  while,  will-ye  nill-ye, 
they  were  pent  together  without  hope  of  freedom. 
"  'Twas  the  fight  killed  them.  I  think  the  devil 
was  in  that  monk  ;  and  yet,  to  be  honest,  not  one 
of  us  all,  not  brave-hearted  Father  Roger  himself, 
has  played  the  man  as  the  monk  did  this  night  past. 
First  he  said  he  must  go  to  that  shepherd's  hut 
that  lies  out  two  furlongs  into  the  fields,  an  empty 
one-roomed  shell.  There  was  a  comrade  sick,  he 
said,  and  he  must  bring  him  food  for  the  night, 
a  brother  Franciscan  but  not  of  his  own  order, 
and  who  was  too  weak  to  face  the  pestilence.  It 
was  beyond  the  cordon,  but  I  let  him  go,  he  swear- 
ing that  this  other  would  not  quit  the  hut  while  the 
plague  raged.  For  that  I  gave  him  an  hour,  and 
he  took  but  forty  minutes.  Then  he  did  the  work 
of  ten.  His  great  bony  hands  are  as  supple  and 
gentle  of  touch  as  a  woman's,  and  no  nursing 
mother  ever  took  her  babe  to  her  arms  more  ten- 
derly than  he  the  perishing  wretches.  His  very 
voice  grew  soft,  and  from  every  point  he  played 
his  part  so  well  that  I,  who  had  it  in  my  heart  to 
wring  his  neck  for  his  mischief-making,  have  per- 


232  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

force  taken  to  belauding  him.  A  fearless,  kindly, 
unselfish,  tender  spirit,  only  I  pray  God  no  more 
of  his  like  come  to  Saint  Agnes." 

While  he  was  speaking  Denise  recovered  herself. 
After  all,  the  tally  of  loss,  long  as  it  was,  was  no 
greater  than  she  had  looked  for.  When  corn  is 
over-ripe  it  needs  no  great  strength  of  wind  to  shed 
it,  and  this  storm  had  been  a  sudden  blast  of  a 
hurricane. 

"  Nineteen?  Then  there  is  work  for  us  all.  Go 
you  and  rest,  Monsieur  de  Casera.  The  pinch  may 
come  again  to-night,  and  then  we  shall  need  you, 
as  we  have  so  sorely  of  late.  May  God  bless  you 
for  all  your  unselfish  devotion  to  my  stricken  people. 
That  a  man  should  play  the  man  in  slaying  man 
seems  common  and  easy  enough,  and  not  a  thing 
for  much  thanks.  Too  common,  God  wot,  and  too 
easy,  but  when  it  comes  to  saving  men,  that  is 
mostly  left  to  priests  and  women.  From  my  heart, 
Monsieur,  I  thank  you." 

To  a  man  in  love  good  resolves  are  for  the  most 
part  so  much  arid  stubble  ;  dry,  cold,  and  stiffly 
upright,  let  the  wind  be  rough  as  it  may — until  the 
spark  falls?  So  was  it  now  with  Francois  de 
Casera.  Gratitude  set  him  ablaze.  It  was  at  once 
too  much  and  yet  not  enough.  The  spark  was  set 
flying,  and  his  self-restraint  went  from  him  in  a 
whirl  of  passion. 

"  Devotion  !  Thanks  !  "  he  cried.  "  Where  is 
there  room  for  words  like  these  between  us  two  ? 
Or  yes,  devotion  if  you  will ;  love,  devotion,  adora- 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.          233 

tion  heart  and  soul.  Because  of  your  coldness,  and 
lest  by  offence  I  should  ruin  all,  I  strove  hard  to 
keep  these  under,  but  you  have  seen  them,  have  you 
not  ?  Ah !  you  must  have.  Love  has  something 
of  God  in  it,  and  cannot  be  hid.  But  let  me  be 
honest.  Your  people  owe  me  nothing  ;  but  for  you 
I  had  played  coward  like  any  other  man,  but  you 
drew  me  and  held  me  here.  You  are  my  Saint,  my 
Madonna,  my  Lady  of  Succour.  Surely  the  time 
has  come  when  I  may  say  this  ?  From  the  first 
hour  I  have  loved  you  ;  have  I  not  waited  long 
enough  ?  Oh,  I  know  I  am  unworthy,  unworthy  ; 
but,  Denise,  can  you  not  absolve  and  stoop  to  me  ? 
I  had  no  thought  of  speaking  yet,  but  that  bare 
thanks  should  pass  between  us — thanks,  and  no 
more — stung  me  ;  and  surely — surely  the  time  has 
come  when  I  may  speak  and  be  forgiven  for  speak- 
ing. I  love  you,  Denise,  love  you  ;  can  you  not 

say " 

Startled  by  his  outburst,  Denise  had  shrunk  back, 
and  as  his  words  came  clearly  home  to  her  she  grew 
white  and  fell  to  trembling  as  if  with  fright. 
Indeed,  a  kind  of  fear  did  possess  her — a  fear  in 
part  of  herself  and  in  part  of  him.  To  her  almost 
cloistered  quietness  of  life  this  vehemence  was  a 
revelation,  and  that  it  stirred  such  an  answer  in 
herself  shamed  her,  startled  her,  and  lest  it  carry 
her  away  whether  she  would  or  no,  she  broke  in 
upon  him,  silencing  him  with  an  imperious  gesture. 
"  The  time  can  never  come,  never,  never !  And, 
oh,  Monsieur,  what  you  say  is  little  better  than 


234  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

blasphemy  ;  I  am  but  a  woman,  and  weaker  than 
you  dream." 

"Never?"  he  echoed,  "  never  ?  I  will  take  no 
'  never '  from  you.  Nor  is  it  blasphemy  to  say  you 
are  the  sweetest  woman  on  God's  earth  and  the 
noblest,  and  yet  a  saint." 

"  But  it  is  never,"  answered  she ;  "  there  is  no 
other  word  possible.  Understand  that,  Monsieur." 

"  What  ?  Has  love  no  claim  ?  Nay,  have  I  no 
claim  even  apart  from  love  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,  you  are  not  generous  to  press 
such  a  point.  No,  in  such  a  thing  as  this  I  can 
admit  no  claim." 

"  But,  Denise " 

"  Monsieur,  I  am  Mademoiselle  de  Lhoeac,  and  I 
pray  you  to  remember  it." 

"  Mademoiselle  de  Lhoeac  ?  Always  Mademoi- 
selle de  Lhoeac  to  me?  For  God's  sake,  Denise, 
think  what  hangs  on  the  answer — communion,  love, 
happiness,  the  joy  and  blessing  of  life.  Think, 
Denise,  think ! " 

"Always,  Monsieur,  always,"  and  for  all  her 
assuredness  her  voice  broke  in  the  saying  it. 
"  Religion — a  vow — forbids  it  should  be  other- 
wise. What  more  can  I  say  ?  Nay,  even  that  is 
too  much.  Oh  !  you  are  cruel,  you  are  cruel !  " 

"  Religion  !  "  he  echoed  bitterly.  "  Do  you  call 
the  meddling  of  a  monk  religion  because  of  his 
priest's  frock  ?  My  ideal  strikes  higher  than  that. 
He  has  wronged  us  both.  Ah,  Denise,  Denise,  let 
the  wrong  be  forgotten  ; "  he  caught  her  hands  as 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RELIGION.         235 

she  held  them  clasping  and  unclasping  them  before 
her.  "  Is  it  for  ever  ?  Oh,  my  love,  is  it  for  ever, 
for  ever  ?  " 

But  his  touch  braced  her  slackened  nerves,  and 
she  drew  herself  rigidly  back. 

"  It  is  both  never  and  for  ever,  Monsieur,"  she 
answered,  looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

Afterwards  one  thing  came  back  to  her  as  strange. 
He  had  spoken  of  a  priest's  meddling,  but  though 
the  black  friar  had  wrought  much  evil  to  Saint 
Agnes,  she  could  not  see  how  he  had  wronged  them. 
The  blame  lay,  rather,  at  the  door  of  Henri  de 
Lhoeac. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR. 
I. 

EVEN  if  Denise  had  wished  it,  de  Casera  gave 
her  no  opportunity  for  enlightenment.  He  was 
still  her  loyal  helper,  still  her  right  hand  and  her 
forethought ;  still  ready  to  set  his  shoulder  to  the 
burden  that  she  might  be  spared  its  weight,  but 
the  frank  camaraderie  which  had  so  eased  the 
troubles  of  the  first  weeks  of  the  pestilence  was 
gone.  The  union  of  labour  remained,  but  the 
communion  of  sympathy  which  had  made  the 
labour  tolerable  and  even  sweet  at  times  was  lost. 

These  were  the  days  of  the  parching,  merciless 
August  heat,  and  when  the  spirit  walks  in  a  thirsty 
land  the  blight  within  and  the  blight  without  tell 
upon  the  frame  with  more  than  double  force.  Days 
they  were  of  glare  and  dust,  of  cracked  earth  and 
breathless  stagnant  air,  of  flagging  weariness  when 
not  even  the  quiet  of  night  brought  blessing,  so 
dewless  was  it  and  so  sullenly  hot.  Through  these 
days  of  trial  to  flesh  and  spirit  Denise  grew  pitifully 
wan  and  worn  of  face.  Only  the  steady  slackening 
of  the  anxious  strain  saved  her  from  prostration, 
and  that  the  strain  slackened  as  it  did  was  in  great 
measure  due  to  the  Franciscan.  Two  whites  can- 
not make  a  black  better  than  grey,  but  if  he  had 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.          237 

done  mischief  there  was  this  to  his  credit,  that  he 
played  a  large  part  in  the  undoing  of  it  and  with 
no  thought  of  himself. 

"A  man  cannot  but  admire  and  yet  pity  the 
creature,"  said  Roger  on  the  fourteenth  day  after 
the  recrudescence  of  the  scourge,  and  speaking  with 
a  kind  of  compelled  and  niggard  appreciation.  "  If 
he  sleeps  at  all  it  must  be  on  his  feet  and  working 
the  while;  or  maybe  at  his  prayers,  which  are 
gentler,  I  doubt  not,  than  they  were  a  while  back. 
From  his  first  day  he  was  as  lean  as  a  half-filled 
bran-bag,  but  now  he  has  so  fallen  away  that  his 
cassock  hangs  limply  on  him  like  a  dragoon's  coat 
on  a  scarecrow.  One  would  swear  the  fellow  is 
five  places  at  once  so  busy  is  he,  and  day  by  day 
his  lantern  face  grows  more  lantern-like  than  ever, 
but  in  a  new  sense.  There  is  a  light,  a  glow,  in  his 
eyes  I  do  not  like.  It  is  as  if  the  soul  of  the  man 
was  edging  outwards  ready  for  a  flight,  and  the 
sight  of  it  gives  me  the  shivers.  Life  I  can  stand, 
death  I  can  stand,  but  a  naked  soul  'twixt  the  one 
and  the  other  is  a  terrible  thing.  I  would  we  had 
both  you  and  him,  Mademoiselle,  safe  out  of  Saint 
Agnes." 

"  The  day  for  that  cannot  be  far  off,  Father 
Roger.  There  has  been  no  new  outbreak  for  this 
week  past,  and  if  another  seven  days  go  by  I  think 
we  may  call  the  siege  raised." 

"  So  I  tell  the  Franciscan — Father  Luke  he  calls 
himself — but  he  only  shakes  his  head  with  an  un- 
canny smile  on  those  thin  chaps  of  his,  and  says 


238  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

that  sin  must  first  be  punished.  As  if,"  added 
Roger  passionately,  "  we  had  not  suffered  enough 
already  for  Jean  Tron's  ill-doing!  " 

"What!  I  thought  he  had  grown  kindlier? 
Does  he  still  fling  that  at  the  poor  souls?  " 

"  No,  Mademoiselle,  no ;  to  them  he  talks  as  if 
the  debt  was  paid  and  the  plague  stayed.  Tis  only 
to  me  he  croaks,  and  how  so  vilely  honest  a  man 
can  reconcile  the  two  to  his  conscience  passes  my 
understanding.  Father  Luke  the  Cordelier,  I  sup- 
pose, gives  Father  Luke  the  Franciscan  absolution." 

"  Then  in  a  week,  Father  Roger?  " 

"  If,  Mademoiselle,  if !  Remember  there  is  that 
plaguey  'if.'  ' 

"  If  the  '  if '  becomes  *  aye  '  it  will  break  my 
heart,  for,"  and  her  voice  shook  a  little  in  spite  of 
her  effort  at  control,  "  I  have  grown  coward  of  late, 
coward  and  weary,  very  weary.  Oh  !  Father  Roger, 
thou  canst  not  think  how  weary." 

"Aye,"  answered  Roger  compassionately,  his 
honest  lean  face  growing  troubled,  "  that's  plain 
to  be  seen  without  the  telling,  so  plain  that  even 
these  swine  here  have  seen  it  and  so  grow  less 
swinish.  Truly,  I  think  there  is  something  like  a 
soul  astir  in  them.  Now  that  their  fears  give  them 
leisure  to  think — if  they  ever  think ! — they  under- 
stand dimly  what  it  is  you  have  done  for  them. 
Oh,  I  see  it  dawning  slowly,  slowly,  for  that's 
natural.  Saving  by  a  miracle,  the  new  spirit  is 
not  born  to  a  man  in  an  hour.  In  the  core  of 
winter  the  day  comes  at  a  snail's  crawl,  and  what 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.  239 

are  they  but  in  winter  the  whole  year  round  ? — in 
brain  and  spirit,  I  mean.  But  the  life  is  stirring. 
There  are  shame-faced  mutterings,  tags  of  prayers 
not  for  themselves,  broken  blessings,  a  flicker  of 
light  in  the  eyes — not  much,  I  grant,  but  from  such 
clods  the  little  is  greater  than  it  seems  and  means 
much.  Besides,  what  there  is  rings  true,  which  is 
more  than  can  sometimes  be  said  of  your  fine 
monsieurs  and  madames.  Three  months  ago  I 
would  as  soon  have  thought  to  rouse  a  tree-stump 
as  a  dolt  peasant,  and  yet  there  they  are  astir  with 
a  new  life,  and  of  your  making.  By  the  week's 
end — if  it  be  no  longer  than  a  week — you  will  have 
them  slavering  where  not  so  long  ago  they  would 
have  bitten." 

"  Rest  in  a  week  !  "  said  Denise,  her  eyes  brighten- 
ing and  a  smile  stirring  the  corners  of  he.r  mouth. 
"  That  means " 

"  Lhoeac  and  Madame  Catherine."  It  was 
characteristic  of  Roger  Patcham  that  he  put  Lhoeac 
first.  To  him  it  was  as  much  a  personality  as  the 
other,  and  it  loomed  largest.  "  I  warrant  both  will 
give  you  such  a  welcome  as  has  not  been  seen  in 
Guienne  since  du  Guesclin  made  his  progress  a 
hundred  and  forty  years  back,  and  with  reason." 

"  Nay,"  said  Denise,  shaking  her  head,  while  the 
moisture  gathered  in  her  eyes,  "  nay,  not  Lhoeac 
c-xccpt  for  a  farewell.  Then  to  Our  Lady's  house 
of  Saint  Marzier.  There  is  no  rest  for  me  at 
Lhoeac." 

"  Saint  Marzier?     Our   Lady's  house  ?"     Roger 


240  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

Patcham  stared  bewildered.  To  set  anything,  any- 
where, for  any  purpose,  before  Lhoeac  was  treason. 
"  Is  it  the  convent  of  the  Poor  Clares,  Mademoiselle  ? 
Oh,  you  mean  for  a  thanksgiving?" 

"  I  mean  for  rest,  rest.  I  can  thank  God  any- 
where. It  is  rest  I  seek,  rest  for  spirit  and  life. 
Oh !  if  you  but  knew  how  weary  I  am  in  both, 
and  how  small  and  poor  the  world  has  grown  in 
these  last  weeks." 

"  By  my  faith,  it  is  bigger  than  the  four  walls  of 
a  nunnery  and  richer  than  any  Grey  Sisterhood. 
But  I  see  how  it  is,  Mademoiselle,  you  are  out- 
worn." 

"Not  in  will, my  friend,  understand  that.  These 
weeks  have  taught  me  much.  Henceforth  I  shall 
live  for  the  world  to  come,  in  the  faith  that — 

"Then  our  love  goes  for  nought?  This  new  life 
that  is  come  to  Saint  Agnes  may  die  still-born,  and 
the  swine  that  are  groping  after  manhood  go  back 
to  their  straw  and  sty  ?  We  may  perish  while  you 
live  in  the  faith  that  we  live  !  and  so  comfort  your 
own  soul  at  the  cost  of  a  thousand  souls !  Yourself 
first  and  alone  ?  By  Saint  George  !  that  was  never 
Lhoeac's  way,  and  I'll  not  believe  it." 

As  he  spoke  Roger  Patcham's  face  grew  stern, 
sterner  than  Denise  had  seen  it  in  all  her  years  of 
life,  and  even  when  he  ended  his  grizzled  beard 
wagged  with  the  hardly  checked  emotion  that 
moved  him.  She  had  outraged  not  simply  his  love 
for  herself,  but  his  reverence  for  Lhoeac,  whose  hope 
she  was,  and  so  truly  he  did  well  to  be  angry.  For 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.          241 

the  moment  not  even  the  sight  of  her  white  misery 
could  move  him.  So  for  a  brief  space  the  two 
stood  silent,  bitter-hearted  with  one  another,  as  love 
is  wont  to  be  when  at  odds,  more  bitter  than  frank 
indifference  :  he  bolt  upright  and  staring  harshly  at 
her  from  under  his  bent  brows ;  she  half-turned 
from  him,  broken-nerved  and  biting  her  lip  in  her 
distress  and  incertitude.  In  the  end  it  was  he  who 
broke  the  silence,  and  the  coldness  which  underlay 
the  careful  restraint  of  his  harsh  voice  was  so  like 
the  ruthless  flicking  of  a  bared  nerve  that  she 
gasped,  wincing  as  at  physical  pain: 

"  I  crave  your  pardon,  Mademoiselle.  I  broke  in 
upon  you  unmannerly.  You  were  saying  you  will 
live  in  the  faith  that— that ?" 

"  Old  friend,  old  friend,  is  this  kind  ?  Is  this  your 
twenty  years  of  love  ?  " 

"  If  twenty  years  of  love  have  been  forgotten, 
Mademoiselle,  if  twenty  years  of  love  are  flung 
aside  at  the  first  whim  like  a  tattered  glove,  why,  so 
much  the  worse  for  twenty  years  of  love,  and  small 
wonder  if  I,  too,  forget ; "  but  the  hard  voice  shook 
and  the  lips  that  lay  so  tight  across  the  teeth 
twitched  under  the  bristling  grey  moustache.  Deny 
love  as  he  might  in  his  temper,  it  was  no  easy 
matter,  even  in  his  temper,  for  Father  Roger  to  be 
austere  to  his  darling. 

"  Have  I  forgotten?  Ah,  my  God  !  no,  no,  no, 
never  that,  never  that !  And  how  can  I  make  you 
understand  ?  " 

••  Well,  but " 


242  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"Let  me  find  peace,  Father  Roger;  if  thou 
lovest  me  let  me  find  peace." 

"  Peace  ?  and  at  Saint  Marzier  ?  With  you  inside 
and  the  work  of  your  life  without  ?  Poor  lamb  ! 
hast  thou  not  learned  that  peace  is  a  bird  that  never 
nests  from  home  ?  If  thou  bringest  no  peace  with 
thee  thou  wilt  find  little  at  Saint  Marzier,  grey  frock 
or  white  frock." 

Then  a  new  thought  struck  him.  His  face  lit  up, 
and  reaching  forward,  he  laid  his  hand  lightly  on 
her  sleeve. 

"  Father  Roger  thou  callest  me  ;  that,  I  know,  is 
a  relic  of  the  child's  days  when  scores  of  times  I 
have  nursed  you  as  little  more  than  a  tottering 
babe  ;  but  let  the  name  stand  so  that  I  may  truly 
play  the  father  for  once  and  without  offence.  Tell 
me,  my  heart,  has  Monsieur  de  Casera  aught  to  say 
to " 

"  Monsieur  de  Casera  ? "  The  white  face  was 
flushed  enough  now,  and  the  wail  that  had  shaken 
her  voice  was  lost  in  hardness  almost  as  cold  as  his 
own  had  been  ;  only  a  hand  flew  up  to  her  breast, 
and  he  could  see  the  slim  fingers  playing  nervously 
with  the  silk  kerchief  at  the  throat.  "  A  week 
hence  I  hope  Monsieur  de  Casera  will  ride  where- 
soever he  lists  and  Lhoeac  see  him  no  more.  Let 
him  go  back  to  the  world  as  he  came.  I  pray  you, 
Father  Roger,  to  leave  Monsieur  de  Casera  aside." 

"  Poor  thanks  that,  Mademoiselle,  to  a  man  who, 
all  unasked,  has  risked  his  life  for  our  sakes — a 
mighty  proper  man  too,  and  a  gentleman  to  boot." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.  243 

"  Aye,  all  unasked  ;  there  you  have  it.  There 
need  be  small  thanks  for  that  which  was  never 
sought." 

"  By  your  leave,  that  is  no  answer.  Saint  Agnes 
might  say  the  same  to  you,  to  me,  aye,  and  to  the 
very  monks  who  died  to  succour  her,  martyrs  to 
their  religion  and  humanity  and  yet  martyrs 
unasked.  Who  bid  them  die  ?  Not  Saint  Agnes, 
faith  !  Saint  Agnes  would  sooner  have  slovened  it 
on  in  her  filth  ;  and  yet  I  have  heard  you  rail  and 
rate  because  the  folks  were  cloddish  and  gave  so 
little  thanks." 

"  Thou  art  right,  old  friend,  quite  right,  and  I 
quite  wrong.  But  thou  seest,"  and  a  pitiful  smile 
lit  up  her  troubled  face  an  instant,  a  smile  that  was 
mirthless  and  fuller  of  sorrow  than  laughter,  "  what 
sore  need  this  evil  spirit  of  mine  has  of  the  sister's 
teaching.  Do  thou  thank  Monsieur  de  Casera  for 
me  ;  thank  him  as  he  should  be  thanked.  From  a 
woman  to  a  man  there  is  the  risk  that  thanks  may 
mean  too  much  or  too  little.  For  the  rest,  we  shall 
wait  our  week,  and — and — thou  art  not  angry  with 
me,  Father  Roger?" 

The  hand  she  held  out  to  him  was  very  cold  for 
all  the  heavy  August  heat,  and  as  Roger  Patcham 
took  it  in  both  his  and  kissed  it  he  vowed  in  his 
heart  that  Fran9ois  de  Casera  should  be  more  than 
thanked.  In  his  astuteness  he  guessed  there  had 
been  some  lovers'  quarrel,  and  if  plain  speech  would 
bring  the  colour  back  to  Mademoiselle's  cheeks,  and 
the  light  to  her  eyes,  then  plain  speech  there  would 


244  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

be,  even  though  an  abatement  of  dignity  went 
with  it. 

"  I  angry  with  thee  ?  "The  Lord  forbid.  A  man 
might  as  well  be  wrath  with  his  heart's  desire.  But 
as  thou  lovest  me,  and  as  thou  lovest  Lhoeac,  let 
there  be  no  more  talk  of  Saint  Marzier.  Dost  thou 
want  to  break  all  our  hearts  ?  " 

From  Denise  he  went  straight  to  de  Casera,  and 
found  him  busily  doing  that  which  of  late  he  had 
had  little  leisure  to  do,  namely,  polishing  up  his 
beast's  cheek-chains,  and  the  steel  buckles  of  its  har- 
nessing. These  were  hanging  from  a  stout  peg 
driven  into  the  trunk  of  a  great  oak  that  grew  to 
the  south  of  the  village,  and  to  judge  by  his  extreme 
diligence  Messire  de  Casera  had  no  thought  in  the 
world  but  to  be  well  rid  of  so  much  ill-gotten  rust. 

"A  prophecy  without  words,  Monsieur,"  said 
Roger  Patcham,  with  a  gesture  towards  the  trap- 
pings as  the  other  turned  from  his  work  with  a  nod. 
"You  smell  liberty,  and  indeed  I  think  it  is  in  the 
air  and  not  a  week  away.  Do  you  ride  with  us  to 
Lhoeac  when  the  time  comes  to  quit  Saint  Agnes? 
Surely  no  man  could  ever  be  more  welcome." 

"  Do  you  say  that  of  yourself,  friend  Patcham,  or 
on  another's  behalf?  Ah!  I  see.  As  I  might 
have  guessed,  it  was  friend  Patcham's  courtesy  and 
no  more.  When  I  quit  Saint  Agnes  I  ride  to  Italy, 
Messire.  France  is  too  much  cursed  with  a  plague 
to  suit  my  health." 

"  But  the  plague  is  done  with,  and  for  that  the 
largest  thanks  in  the  world  are  due  to  you." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.  245 

"  Again  I  ask,  do  you  say  that  of  yourself  or  for 
another?  Oh!  fie!  an  old  soldier  should  keep  his 
countenance  better  than  that !  I  mean  no  offence, 
but  who  are  you  to  give  me  thanks  in  the  name  of 
Lhoeac,  Captain  Patcham  ?  As  to  plagues,  there  are 
more  in  the  world  than  one,  and  not  all  lightly 
cured.  For  the  present,  then,  to  me  Italy  is  more 
wholesome  than  Guienne ; "  and  back  he  went  to 
his  chain-cleaning. 

Father  Roger  scratched  his  beard  in  perplexity 
as  he  stood  watching  de  Casera's  busy  fingers  doing 
their  work  as  deftly  as  if  their  owner  had  served  a 
camp  apprenticeship  to  the  sternest  martinet  that 
ever  swore  an  oath.  The  truth  was  he  was  sorely 
puzzled,  and  it  dawned  upon  him  that  the  handful 
he  had  gripped  was  too  big  for  his  fist.  A  little 
while  back  it  had  seemed  an  easy  thing  to  cunningly 
sound  this  Francois  de  Casera,  to  grope  his  secrets 
as  a  boy  tickling  trout  under  a  stone  flings  his  victim 
gasping  on  the  bank  before  it  even  takes  fright  at 
danger.  So  long  as  it  was  a  mere  vague  thing  to  be 
done,  and  with  the  hand  of  his  mistress  trembling 
in  his,  it  had  been  simple  enough.  To  his  mind's 
forecast,  that  de  Casera  would  give  a  direct  answer 
to  a  few  seeming  careless  words  was  a  thing  of 
course.  But  face  to  face  with  this  six  feet  of  stolid 
manhood  the  thing  took  on  another  complexion, 
and  the  careless  words,  which  were  to  come  so  pat 
and  to  do  so  much,  failed  him  utterly.  Who  was 
he  to  fling  his  mistress  at  the  head  of  a  stranger, 
and  what  thanks  would  either  of  them  give  him  for 


246  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

the  flinging  ?  In  the  end  he  did  what  nineteen  out 
of  every  twenty  men  would  have  done — he  gave 
policy  the  go-by  and  went  bluntly  to  the  heart  of 
the  matter. 

"  Tell  me,  Monsieur  de  Casera,  why  does  Made- 
moiselle throw  herself  into  the  arms  of  Our  Lady  of 
Consolation  at  Saint  Marzier,  and  all  in  such  a 
hurry  ?  " 

If  it  had  been  Roger  Patcham's  object  to  compel 
the  other's  attention,  there  was  no  doubt  of  his 
success.  De  Casera's  hand  still  moved  up  and 
down  the  steels,  but  his  diligence  had  suddenly 
gone  from  him  like  the  tension  from  a  pricked 
bladder,  and  from  the  blankness  of  his  look  it  was 
clear  he  had  learned  news. 

"Saint  Marzier?" 

"  Ay,  Saint  Marzier  ;  the  nun's  house  of  the  Poor 
Clares." 

"That  must  not  be,  Master  Patcham." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  Messire  de  Casera ;  but  no 
man,  save  one,  dare  say  '  must '  to  Denise  de 
Lhoeac." 

"  The  King  ?  " 

"  The  King ! "  and  Roger  Patcham  laughed. 
"  Little  we've  cared  for  the  King  all  these  years. 
A  fig  for  the  King;  the  man  she  loves,  and  no 
other." 

The  muscles  of  Fra^ois  de  Casera's  face  stiffened, 
but,  unless  a  hard  stare  was  an  answer,  he  made 
no  retort.  Then  Roger  Patcham,  having  gone  too 
far  to  recede,  took  his  courage  in  both  hands. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.  247 

"  Do   you    stop   her   folly,     Messire,"    he    said 
softly.     "  I  think  she  would  heed  you." 


II. 

This  time  de  Casera  abandoned  even  the  poor 
pretence  of  continued  work.  Chains,  buckles,  and 
straps  slipped  from  his  fingers,  and  swung  with  a 
clash  against  the  tree-trunk  as  he  turned  to  Roger 
Patcham. 

"Heed  me?"  he  cried,  doubling  his  knuckles 
into  his  hips,  while  a  little  sour  smile  puckered  his 
mouth.  "  Bah  !  I  will  be  blunt  with  you,  though 
in  a  sense  it  is  no  affair  of  yours."  And  then  it 
was  that  Master  Patcham  heard  the  same  truth 
that  Denise  had  told  him  under  the  blue  skies  at 
Meluzza  and  in  much  the  same  words.  "  You  know 
men,  my  friend,  as  a  man  knows  his  sword-handle  ; 

that  is  your  business.  But  of  women ! "  The 

sour  smile  broadened  to  a  mirthless  laugh,  full  of  a 
vexed  contempt  for  more  than  the  man  he  gibed — 
"of  women  you  do  not  know  even  the  very  begin- 
ning. To  be  frank — for  love  is  like  this  world's 
goods  and  a  man  who  is  clean  stark  beggared  has 
no  shame  in  his  beggary.  'Tis  only  he  with  a  shred 
of  hope  that  needs  must  play  a  part  and  blind  the 
world,  making  the  little  seem  the  much.  Now,  I 
am  fair  bankrupt,  and  so  can  brazen  out  the  truth. 
I  pled  with  her  for  an  hour,  and  she  would  none  of 
me,  would  not  even  give  me  as  much  as  a  '  Merci, 
Monsieur,'  and  now  you  say But  there,  for  a 


248  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

shrewd  man  you  talk  strange  folly  at  times,  Captain 
Patcham." 

"  I  may  not  know  women,"  answered  Father 
Roger  slowly,  "  and  I  take  no  shame  that  I  don't  ; 
a  man  might  as  well  hope  to  know  what  flash  will 
next  come  from  a  diamond — red,  blue,  white,  or 
what  you  will — as  seek  to  know  even  one  of  them 
out  and  out,  to  say  nought  of  knowing  them  all. 
But  I  know  this  much  of  one  woman  at  least,  that 
she  is  troubled  to  the  very  bottom  of  her  soul,  and 
that  her  trouble  is  new-born.  A  straight  answer, 
now — nay,  I  need  not  say  that  to  you,  and  crave 
your  pardon.  But  tell  me,  is  it  because  of  you, 
Monsieur  de  Casera,  that  Mademoiselle  goes  to 
Saint  Marzier?  " 

For  a  moment  Francois  de  Casera  stood  gnawing 
his  lip  in  his  perplexity ;  then  he  answered — 

"  On  my  faith  as  a  gentleman,  I  fear  it  is,  and 
yet,  on  the  same  faith,  I  cannot  see  that  it  need 
be." 

"  Am  I  then  such  a  fool  as  I  seemed  ?  "  cried 
Patcham,  the  beginning  of  a  smile  twinkling  in  his 
eyes.  But  there  he  stopped  dead,  and  a  rare  scowl 
chased  away  the  laughter.  "  So  ?  'Tis  your  fault  ?  " 
he  went  on  harshly.  "  In  God's  name,  Monsieur, 
have  you  dared  play  fast  and  loose  with  Denise  de 
Lhoeac?  But,  there,  you  are  no  man  to  be 
threatened,  nor  I  a  man  to  threaten.  We  leave 
that  to  canaille  and  bullies.  If  needs  must,  we  can 
both  act,  and  say  nothing." 

"  Fast  and  loose  ?  "  echoed  de  Casera,  with  a  hard 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.  249 

laugh  that  slipped  into  a  groan  before  it  was  clear 
of  his  throat;  "  fast  bound,  and  no  loosing  for  me 
in  this  world.  Man,  man,  are  you  so  blind  that  you 
cannot  see  that  I  honour  and  reverence  your  mis- 
tress as  I  do  my  mother's  memory  ?  and  can  a  man 
say  more  ?  By  my  faith !  I  trow  not,  though  he 
protested  for  a  week.  Fast  and  loose,  fast  and 
loose !  I  play  fast  and  loose  with  Denise  de 
Lhoeac  ?  Oh,  my  friend,  God  grant  you  wisdom 
to  mend  your  folly,  for  you  have  sore  need  of  it." 

"  My  folly  knows  this  much  for  truth,"  answered 
Roger  Patcham  :  "  honour  and  reverence  are  well 
enough,  but  yet  a  poor  exchange  for  a  woman's 
love.  As  well  say,  '  Here  are  so  much  snow  and  ice 
to  warm  your  fire  ! '  Or,  'You're  hungry  ;  feed,  then, 
on  husks  and  be  happy  ! '  But  then,  I  do  not  know 
women." 

"  Chut ! "  and  de  Casera  stamped  his  foot  im- 
patiently ;  "  did  I  not  tell  you  that  she  would  have 
none  of  me  ?  " 

>t  upon  these  terms;  what  woman  would? 
Honour,  reverence,  are  these  enough?  Was  there 
no  love  with  them  ?  My  faith,  but  you  are  cold, 
Monsieur,  you  are  cold." 

"  Cold  ?  I  cold  ?  What  does  a  withered  stock 
like  you  know  of  a  man's  love  ?  I  pled,  prayed* 
urged,  stripped  my  very  heart  bare  before  her, 
abased  myself  as  I  nevc%r  yet  have  done  saving  to 
Almighty  God ;  and  yet  you  fling  my  coldness  in 
my  face  because,  being  a  man,  I  cannot  lightly  tell 
a  man  such  things,  but  wrap  them  round  with 


250  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

reverent,  careful  words.  Love  ?  Trust  me,  Denise 
de  Lhoeac  knows  I  love  her  as  a  woman  loves  to  be 
loved." 

"  And  she  ?     What  answer,  Monsieur ?  " 

"  Answer  ?  "  cried  de  Casera  bitterly  ;  "  no  answer 
pleasant  to  remember.  She  shrunk  and  trembled 
as  if  I  preached  sacrilege  ;  thrust  me  back  with 
hands  that  never  touched  me,  so  abhorrent  were 
they.  Not  that  I  sought  to  importune  her ;  their 
trembling  was  enough.  *  A  vow,'  she  said,  '  comes 
between  us '  " 

"  A  vow  ? "  cried  Father  Roger,  breaking  in. 
"  What  vow  ?  " 

"  Why,  how  should  I  know  ? "  answered  de 
Casera,  cooling  suddenly  and  laying,  as  it  were,  a 
fresh  hold  upon  himself.  "  She  talked  of  the 
church,  stammered  and  shrunk  still  further  back. 
And  I — well,  to  be  frank,  my  temper  was  worn  to  a 
thin  edge,  and  I  cursed  the  church — since  what  has 
the  church  to  do  with  the  love  of  a  man  for  a 
maid  ? — and  with  that  we  parted.  There's  the 
blunt  truth,"  added  he,  with  rueful  scorn  ;  "  and 
yet  you  say  I  can  keep  her  out  of  Saint  Marzier  if 
I  will." 

For  a  moment  the  two  stood  silent,  each  coursing 
his  own  thought  and  finding  the  sport  cold  com- 
fort. At  last  de  Casera  went  on,  dropping  his 
words  slowly  and  speaking  to  himself  rather  than 
to  the  other:  "Why,  yes,  yes,  so  perhaps  I  may 
before  all's  done,  but  that  could  only  be  the  last 
card  in  the  game,  for  though  it  may  gain  the  trick, 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.  251 

it  wins  hate  and  not  love."  Then  he  again  fell 
silent,  and  stood  gnawing  his  lip,  a  veritable  pillar 
of  dejection.  Indeed,  so  wrapped  in  his  thought  was 
he  that  he  gave  no  more  than  a  dull  heed  to  Roger 
Patcham's  sudden  illumination  as  he  brought  his 
closed  hand  down  with  a  clash  upon  his  stretched 
palm,  and  cried — 

"  A  vow  ?  Aye,  aye ;  I  see  it  now  :  some  self- 
devotion  for  the  salvation  of  Saint  Agnes  from  its 
strait.  '  Save  these  sheep,  oh  Lord,  and  do  as  Thou 
wilt  with  me.'  Aye,  that  would  be  like  her,  for 
with  her  it  has  ever  been  her  folk  first  and  herself 
last.  Much  thanks  her  folk  gave  her,  and  now  the 
vow  pinches  ;  for  d'ye  see,  Messire,  you  have  come 
between  her  and  her  conscience.  Oh,  yes,  faith,  the 
thing  is  clear  enough,  and  for  such  vows  I  would 
not  give  a  fig  when  once  her  nerve  is  back  ;  they 
are  the  vows  of  a  sick  heart  and  not  a  sound  mind. 
What?  Am  I  not  right  ?" 

But  de  Casera  was  not  so  easily  comforted. 

"  No,"  said  he  souYly,  "  thou  art  not  right ;  thou 
art  as  far  from  it  as  to-day  from  last  week,  and  with 
many  a  soul  that's  the  difference  of  life  and  death." 

"  Wait,"  answered  Roger,  still  jubilant,  "  wait, 
and  before  our  seven  days  are  up  you  will  see  that 
my  folly  has  its  salting  of  wit.  Father  Roger  is  a 
fool,  and  knows  nothing !  Wait,  Messire ;  wait,  I 
say." 

Yet  Roger  Patcham's  optimism  was  sorely  tried 
as  the  days  crept  on.  The  brooding  fear  of  a  re- 
newed  outbreak,  and  the  claims  upon  flesh  and 


252  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

spirit,  alike  slackened  almost  hourly,  but  the  lighter 
labour  brought  no  comfort  in  its  ease.  Rather  it 
widened  the  cleavage  between  these  two.  There 
was  less  association,  less  of  the  sympathy  of  a  joint 
task,  and  as  the  burden  of  toil  and  danger  lifted  the 
two  fell  further  apart.  Nor  was  Saint  Agnes  much 
happier.  The  first  wildfire  news  of  its  coming 
freedom  had  been  followed  by  a  half-maddened 
relapse  into  the  brute,  the  forerunner  of  a  drunken 
debauch  that  would  have  plunged  Lhoeacback  into 
its  terrors  had  not  Roger  Patcham,  backed  by  the 
powers  of  the  church  in  Father  Luke,  sternly  re- 
pressed the  insanity.  That  night  his  men  kept  such 
watch  as  they  would  have  kept  had  Spain  been  on 
the  move,  and  with  more  need.  But  the  watch  was 
effectual.  Sorely  against  its  will,  Saint  Agnes 
went  to  its  straw  sober,  and  awoke  to  the  new  day 
chastened  and  in  its  right  mind. 

That  had  been  the  day  of  Roger  Patcham's  un- 
successful effort  in  diplomacy,  and  with  it  came  a 
consciousness  that  the  gain  of  the  coming  freedom 
would  be  matched  by  a  loss  that  Saint  Agnes  laid 
bitterly  to  its  soul.  Denise,  half-unknown  to  them, 
had  grown  deep  into  their  sluggish  love,  and  the 
dull  hearts  of  the  peasant  folk  felt  the  shadows  of  a 
coming  bereavement.  As  the  half-witted  child  is 
slow  to  weep,  slow  to  laugh,  slow  to  love,  slow  to 
hate,  but  keen  to  hold  fast  that  which  at  last  its 
dim  sense  understands,  so  Saint  Agnes,  stolid, 
callous,  resentful,  uncomprehending,  had  in  these 
later  days  felt  its  stubborn  spirit  stir  within  it. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.  253 

Something  of  the  lavished  love,  something  of  the 
sacrifice,  something  of  the  abnegation  became  clear, 
and  though  she  knew  it  not,  there  grew  up  to  the 
mistress  of  Lhoeac  a  devotion  that  was  as  blind  in 
its  whole-heartedness  as  had  been  the  hate,  coldness, 
and  distrust,  a  devotion  that  bound  her  people  to 
her  by  bonds  which  were  not  those  of  vassal  and 
Suzeraine. 

That  she  went  her  way  amongst  them  undream- 
ing of  this  was  no  marvel.  They  were  unemotional, 
these  folk,  too  hard-pressed  in  the  sharp  struggle 
for  bare  life  to  stop  to  consider  principles  or  pas- 
sions. When,  with  all  their  labour,  the  belly  was 
but  two-thirds  filled,  there  was  scant  time  to  think 
of  heart  or  spirit.  Death,  pain,  and  poverty  were 
their  daily  brethren,  and  even  of  these  they  took 
little  thought ;  they  were  too  common.  It  followed, 
therefore,  that  it  was  hard  for  a  new  thought  to 
take  root  in  such  stony  soil,  but  it  equally  followed 
that  once  rooted  it  would  bide  rooted  until  the 
trump  of  the  last  angel  sounded.  It  is  the  heritage 
of  the  peasant  that  a  virtue  can  hold  him  as  securely 
as  can  a  vice.  To  Denise,  then,  the  days  were  as 
they  had  ever  been,  dull  and  thankless;  nor,  but 
for  a  chance  meeting  with  Father  Luke  when  pro- 
bation had  still  four  days  to  run,  would  she  have 
guessed,  even  dimly,  of  the  new  life  that  had  come 
to  Saint  Agnes. 

Crossing  the  highway  that  cut  the  town  in  halves, 
she  saw  in  the  shade,  hard  by  the  broad  scar  left  by 
the  burning  of  Jean  Tron's  hut,  a  huddled  and 


254  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

hunched  figure  sitting,  legs  doubled  under- 
neath, elbows  on  knees,  and  a  cowled  head  sunk 
wearily  forward.  The  rusty  black  of  the  soiled  and 
patched  cassock — it  had  seen  as  rough  wear  as  its 
owner  these  last  weeks — left  no  doubt  as  to  who 
crouched  there  in  so  forlorn  a  fashion,  for  in  all 
Saint  Agnes  there  was  but  one  Franciscan  frock. 
For  a  moment  she  paused,  thinking  the  man  asleep  ; 
taking,  as  it  were,  a  dog's  rest  between  tasks — the 
only  rest  he  had  allowed  himself  since  his  folly  had 
wrought  such  sore  evil ;  but  presently  he  stirred, 
twisting  his  meagre  shoulders  under  the  slack  of  his 
gown  as  if  in  pain,  and  groaning  dismally. 

"Father  Luke?"  she  cried  sharply,  but  still 
irresolute,  for  while  it  moved  pity,  the  figure  in  its 
filth  and  threadbare  sordidness  repelled  her; 
"Father  Luke  ?  " 

The  groaning  ceased,  the  uneasy  heave  of  the 
body  was  stayed,  and  out  of  the  depths  of  his  hood 
the  monk  looked  at  her  over  his  crossed  wrists. 
From  the  dullness  of  his  peering  eyes  it  was  plain 
he  did  not  recognise  her  for  all  the  flooded  bright- 
ness of  the  sun,  but  as  she  moved  forward  know- 
ledge dawned  upon  him,  and  of  a  sudden  he  woke 
to  life. 

"  Keep  back,"  he  cried,  stretching  out  a  lean 
hand  eagerly.  "  For  the  love  of  Mary,  keep  back  ! 
Would  you  put  fresh  sin  on  my  soul,  and  the  judg- 
ment so  near  ?  The  Lord  only  knows  if  it  is  not 
past  cleansing  already." 

Slowly,  and   like  a  man  crippled  with  pain,  he 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.  255 

stumbled  to  his  feet,  the  lean  hand  still  thrust  out, 
bony  and  sinister  as  the  finger-post  of  death. 

"  Sin  ? "  said  she,  never  halting  now  that  the 
sight  of  his  gaunt  face  had  given  pity  the  upper 
hand.  "  Why,  how  could  that  be  ?  How  could 
I—  Then  she  paused,  and  flushing  suddenly 

shrunk  back. 

"  Never  that,"  answered  the  monk,  with  swift 
comprehension  of  her  thought.  "  Mortal  sin,"  and 
he  groaned  anew,  "  mortal  sin  ;  but  the  Lord  be 
thanked,  never  that.  The  death  of  the  folk  lies 
heavy  on  me.  My  doing!  ah,  my  God,  my  doing! 
Murder,  body  and  soul :  for  some  were  sorely 
unready,  and  some  died  unconfessed.  My  doing! 
How  shall  I  answer  God  Almighty  ?  Nay,  stand 
back,  stand  back,  for  I  would  not  have  another " 

He  checked  himself  suddenly,  as  if  his  tongue 
ran  ahead  of  his  will,  and  for  a  moment  the  two 
stood  silent  with  half  the  blinding  white  of  the 
roadway  between  them. 

"The  death  of  the  folk  was  the  will  of  God," 
began  Denise  slowly,  but  got  no  further,  for  he 
broke  in  sharply — 

"  The  death  of  the  folk  came  of  man's  pride. 
Let  there  be  no  mistake  about  that,  Mademoiselle. 
The  horror  of  it  has  cursed  me  all  these  days,  for 
who  knows  the  terrors  of  the  pit  as  I  do  ?  You 
heard  me  by  the  church  door  that  day  ?  God  knows 
I  thought  myself  His  messenger;  God  knows  that 
though  I  lied  to  the  truth  I  gave  my  soul  no  lie. 
What  I  said  I  held  by.  If  my  light  was  darkness, 


256  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

God  knows  I  thought  my  darkness  light,  and  so 
preached  it.  Was  I  wrong  ?  All  men  do  not  find 

heaven  by    the   same   road.     Then  came But 

you  know  the  rest,  and  oh,  my  God  !  have  I  not 
toiled,  have  I  not  prayed,  have  I  not  repented  ? 
and  all  through  the  toil,  all  through  the  bitterness 
of  repentance  and  the  still  greater  bitterness  of 
self-reproach,  the  heavy  hand  of  the  Lord  was  upon 
me  and  I  knew  that  sin  must  be  wiped  out  in  sacri- 
fice. Is  it  not  His  law  ?  " 

He  had  spoken  slowly,  as  a  man  tormented  by 
some  gnawing,  grinding  agony  picks  his  words  and 
mouths  them  carefully  lest  the  torment  cripple  his 
coherence.  Twice  he  had  staggered,  groping  at  the 
air  for  support ;  and  thrice  had  gripped  the  bosom 
of  his  frock  with  both  hands,  shrinking  and  writhing 
as  if  in  pitiless  distress. 

"  Surely,"  said  Denise  as  the  monotonous  voice 
ceased  dropping  its  quiet  words,  "  surely  repentance 
brings  forgiveness.  Is  that  not  also  His  law?" 

"  Ah  !  God !  "  he  cried,  with  a  rising  shrillness  in 
his  harsh  voice,  "  will  that  give  heaven  to  those  who 
died  in  sin  ?  and  if  by  my  fault  they  be  shut  out, 
where  is  there  peace  for  me  ?  Can  a  man  forget 
these  things  simply  because  he  dies?  It  is  for  that 
I  am  here.  Through  these  days  I  have  watched 
you,  through  these  days  my  humbled  soul  has  halted 
after  yours  as  even  in  their  thick  darkness  blind 
eyes  feel  the  light  and  turn  to  it.  Pray  thou  forme 
that  my  sin  may  be  forgiven,  pray  thou  that  those 
who  died  in  sin  because  of  me  may  be  assoilzied." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.  257 

He  had  swayed  to  his  knees,  possibly  uncon- 
sciously, and  now,  with  clasped  hands  raised  level 
with  his  chin,  rocked  himself  to  and  fro  as  if  in  an 
agony  before  the  altar. 

"  I  pray  ?  I  ?  Father,  in  this  you  mock  more 
than  me." 

"  No  mockery.  Ah  !  no,  no  ;  prayers  are  like 
God's  sunbeams,  and  every  one  brings  blessing 
howsoever  thankless  the  clod  may  be;  therefore, 
Mademoiselle,  I  beseech  you  pray  for  me  night  and 
day  that  the  punishment  may  fall  in  this  world 
only." 

"  I  will  pray,"  answered  she  softly,  "  and  not  I 
alone,  but  the  good  sisters  of  Saint  Marzier  with 
me.  As  you  have  given  your  life  to  God's  service, 
so  will  I." 

Again  stumbling  to  his  feet,  he  stood  staring  at 
her.  His  cowl  had  been  shaken  back  upon  his 
shoulders,  and  in  the  brightness  of  the  sunshine  his 
pinched  face  showed  the  angles  of  the  bones  in 
knots  and  ribs  through  the  hard-drawn  sallow  skin. 
The  fire  which  lit  his  eyes  the  day  he  had  harangued 
the  mob  had  smouldered  down,  ashed  over  as  it 
were  by  weariness  and  agony  of  mind,  but  now  it 
leaped  into  a  sudden  flame,  and  the  gaunt  face 
grew  almost  life-like  in  its  new  interest. 

"  Give  not  as  I  gave,"  he  cried  vehemently. 
"  Words,  words,  words,  so  much  empty  wind  ;  no 
more.  I  know  now  that  that  way  lies  the  soul's 
starvation.  In  the  Lord's  name  I  charge  you,  give 
works.  Saint  Marzier  ?  What  have  you  to  do 


258  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

with  Saint  Marzier  ?  Let  the  houseless  and  the 
homeless  and  the  hopeless  fill  Saint  Marzier.  For 
you  God's  house  is  here,  here  where  we  stand. 
What  ?  You  have  nursed  a  soul  into  the  beast  and 
would  leave  it  to  go  back  to  the  beast?  Then 
would  your  sin  be  worse  than  mine,  and  mine — ah  ! 
my  God,"  and  the  weak,  hoarse  voice  broke  into  a 
wail,  "  mine  is  the  groping  in  eternal  darkness. 
The  faith  I  held  has  gone  frpm  me,  and  in  its  place 
is  the  judgment  that  I  preached.  Hold  to  your 
folk's  love,  Denise  de  Lhoeac,  and  out  of  love  build 
men,  and  men's  salvation.  Let  love  and  labour  be 
your  prayer." 

"  Love  ?  "  answered  Denise  bitterly,  letting  his 
fervency  go  by  her  for  the  time.  "  Their  love  ! 
What  hold  have  I  upon  their  love?  They  do  not 
want  me.  See  how  they  turned  from  me  at  the 
first  beck." 

"  Aye,  but  they  turned  back." 

"  To  turn  away  again  for  the  next  comer ! 
Weathercocks  to  every  wind.  No,  they  have  no 
need  of  me." 

"Yes,  the  greater  need,"  and  in  his  earnestness 
Friar  Luke  forgot  his  own  injunction  and  strode 
forward,  only  to  reel  back,  staggering,  and  with 
both  hands  gripping  afresh  at  his  breast.  "  It  is 
the  judgment  of  God;  keep  back,  keep  back  from 
me,"  he  groaned  as  Denise,  with  instinctive  pity, 
followed  him. 

"  But  you  are  ill,  suffering  ;  let  me " 

But  Friar  Luke  had  recovered  himself.     "That 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.  259 

counts  for  nought.  I  would  thank  God  if  there 
was  nothing  worse  behind  it :  let  it  pass.  As  for 
your  people,  listen,  Mademoiselle :  they  are  but 
children,  and  who  can  dare  to  say  that  a  child  has 
no  love  because  its  ignorant  petulance  cries  out 
against  its  nurse  ?  And — and — but  who  am  I  that 
I  should  preach  to  you? — I,  who  have  learnt  so 
much  and  have  still  such  need  to  be  taught !  Still, 
remember  there  is  always  this  truth,  the  nobility  of 
life  lies  in  doing  the  right  for  the  right's  sake,  let 
the  people  want,  or  not  want,  what  they  may. 
Saint  Marzier?  Nay,  not  Saint  Marzier,  but  Saint 
Agnes,  say  I." 

Then,  as  she  watched  him,  troubled  rather  that 
three  such  widely  different  men  should  all  so  patly 
hold  the  one  opinion,  his  face  grew  ghostly  in  its 
pain  and  pallor,  and  without  even  a  gesture  of  fare- 
well he  turned  and  ran  until  he  disappeared  behind 
the  line  of  houses — ran  blindly  and  in  short  zigzag, 
as  a  deer  does  that  has  received  its  death-hurt  but 
still  struggles  on,  seeking  some  solitude  where  it 
may  lie  down  and  die  in  quiet. 

That  was  the  last  Saint  Agnes  knew  of  the  Fran- 
ciscan  friar  and  also  the  final  scene  of  all  that  long 
companionship  of  life  and  death  that  stuck  in 
Denise's  memory,  save  only  the  riding  home  to 
Lhoeac  which  came  three  days  later.  Of  all  who 
had  borne  men's  parts  in  common  with  him,  who 
had  struggled,  endured,  suffered,  despaired,  con- 
quered, Roger  Patcham  alone  was  to  meet  him  face 
to  face  in  this  world.  May  it  be  that  at  the  last  his 


260  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

soul  had  something  of  that  peace  he  could  not  give 
it  in  the  days  of  his  strength,  and  that  the  burden 
which  so  sorely  oppressed  him  was  uplifted.  Why 
not  ?  For  his  sin  he  gave  repentance,  for  his  fault 
amendment,  for  the  need  of  others  unstinted  service 
and  self-sacrifice  without  fee  or  reward,  and  what 
can  man  do  more  ?  The  rest  is  God's.  From  that 
hour  he  was  missed  from  Saint  Agnes.  As  he  came 
unasked  so  he  went  unsped,  nor,  in  its  divided  heart 
of  joy  at  being  quit  of  its  plague  and  sorrow  at  los- 
ing its  mistress,  did  Saint  Agnes  give  him  a  second 
thought.  To  his  lot  fell  the  common  thanks  of  the 
world.  His  work  for  good  or  evil  was  alike  for- 
gotten with  the  passing  of  four-and-twenty  hours. 

When  at  last  the  day  came  when,  out  of  their 
joint  wisdom,  Roger  Patcham  and  Francois  de 
Casera  pronounced  the  plague  stayed,  Denise,  had 
she  had  her  way,  would  have  mounted  her  horse 
and  ridden  home  to  Lhoeac  as  if  she  had  been  no 
more  than  out  for  an  hour's  hawking.  But  Captain 
Roger,  with  his  own  objects  in  view,  would  hear  of 
no  such  commonplace  departure. 

"  By  your  leave,  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "  \ve 
shall  go  out  as  victors,  as  becomes  us,  and  not 
sneak  home  like  shamed  curs.  That  is,  we  shall  go 
as  it  were  with  drums  beating  and  colours  flying, 
lest  the  fools  and  venomous  of  this  world  say  we 
left  in  secret  with  our  work  half-done." 

The  beat  of  drums,  or  the  parade  which  stood  for 
it,  was  the  very  thing  Denise  sought  to  avoid  ;  but 
Roger  Patcham's  latter  reason  touched  her.  It  was 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.  261 

well  that  Lhoeac  should  know,  and  the  world  be- 
yond Lhoeac,  that  the  embargo  was  lifted  and  that, 
save  for  stricken  homes  and  sore  hearts,  which  were 
for  time's  curing,  all  was  as  it  had  been  before  Jean 
Tron's  home-coming,  and  of  these  neither  Lhoeac 
nor  the  outer  world  would  care  a  fig.  She  gave 
way,  therefore,  and  took  her  place  in  the  procession 
without  remonstrance.  Besides,  it  was  Father 
Roger's  whim,  and  to  Father  Roger  she  owed  much 
more  than  love. 

Nor  was  Captain  Patcham  minded  to  botch  his 
trivial  pageant.  Not  Saint  Denis  of  France  himself 
could  have  better  used  the  available  scant  material, 
and  as  they  swept  round  by  the  lower  end  of  the 
village,  to  curve  back  again  into  its  roadway,  Denise 
smiled  to  herself  to  think  that  so  stern  and  practical 
a  man  could  be  drawn  to  such  childish  display. 
But  as  they  came  in  view  of  the  central  square  the 
smile  died  away,  her  eyes  kindled,  and  her  heart 
leaped  within  her  as  she  had  never  thought  to  feel 
it  leap  again. 

All  Saint  Agnes  was  gathered  there  even  as  it 
had  been  gathered  at  the  coming  of  the  Black 
Friar,  but  with  a  difference.  This  time  a  narrow 
pathway  cleft  the  crowd  asunder,  and  for  three 
ranks  deep  on  either  side  all  knelt,  save  where  the 
aged  priest  of  Saint  Agnes  stood  in  the  forefront, 
his  acolytes  by  him  ;  nor,  from  end  to  end  was  there 
a  covered  head — all  were  unbonneted  as  if  in  an 
Easter  reverence  before  the  altar.  All,  too,  were 
silent.  For  that  one  moment  the  only  sound  was 


262  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

the  ring  of  the  horses'  shoes  on  the  rounded  stones 
as  the  single  file  of  riders  passed  slowly  onwards. 
In  this  also  it  was  like  the  act  of  worship,  so  like 
that  a  sense  of  profanation  struck  Denise,  and  as 
she  drew  near  the  place  where  the  priest  stood 
amidst  his  flock  she  halted  full  of  stern  rebuke. 
But  in  his  fifty  years'  service  of  God,  Father  Mar- 
cel had  grown  wise  in  men  and  divined  her  thought. 
"  Not  to  you,"  he  said,  his  voice  tremulous  with 
more  than  age,  "  but  to  the  Lord  God  who  out  of 
His  mercies  gave  you  to  us  in  our  need.  To  Him 
be  glory,  praise,  and  honour.  But  what  can  we  say 
to  you,  daughter?  Our  poverty  can  add  nothing 
to  your  riches,  our  weakness  nothing  to  your 
strength  ;  but  if  riches  fled  to-night  and  strength 
decayed,  believe  this  :  neither  time  nor  loss  could 
take  our  love  and  gratitude  from  you.  May  the 
blessing  of  the  poor  and  sore  at  heart  rest  upon 
you,  Denise  de  Lhoeac,  blessing  and  honour  from 
those  who  have  nought  else  to  give  ;  and  may  God's 
mercies  be  as  ever  present  in  your  need  as  yours 
were  in  ours.  To  His  blessing,  His  comfort,  and 
His  keeping  I  commit  you,  now  and  henceforward 
to  the  ages  of  the  ages.  Amen." 

And  all  the  people  echoed,  "Amen,  and  amen." 
Not  at  first  did  the  meaning  of  all  come  home  to 
the  weary,  white-faced  woman  who,  frail  and  worn, 
was  so  sorrowfully  unlike  the  Denise  of  the  early 
summer,  but  as  the  sense  of  it  grew  into  her  mind 
her  eyes  brightened,  then  grew  dim,  and  before  Fra 
Marcel  had  ended  the  tears  were  running  down  her 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.  263 

cheeks,  nor  had  she  so  much  as  a  thought  to  dry 
them. 

"  Is  it  true,  my  children,  is  it  true  ?  "  she  began 
between  her  sobs ;  "  and  yet,  what  have  I  done  ? 
It  was  not  I  ;  it  was " 

"  It  was  God's  angel,"  broke  in  a  man's  hard 
voice  from  the  packed  corner  of  the  square.  "  It 
was  Saint  Denise  of  Lhoeac — no  less.  Who  is  this 
Saint  Agnes  of  ours?  And  what  has  she  done  for 
us  in  our  need?  Nought,  nought.  Let  there  be 
no  more  a  Saint  Agnes,  but  let  it  be  Saint  Denise. 
Her  we  know,  and  her  we  can  trust.  God  bless 
and  keep  Saint  Denise  of  Lhoeac." 

And  again  all  the  people  answered,  "  Amen." 

That  ended  the  scene.  Silently,  and  with  still 
streaming  cheeks,  Denise  rode  up  the  narrow  lane- 
way,  her  chin  sunk  upon  her  breast  and  her  wet 
eyes  blind  to  the  kindly,  weeping  faces  that  turned 
their  gaze  to  follow  her  on  her  way.  Not  even  the 
voices  of  benediction  and  farewell  reached  her.  For 
the  moment  the  exterior  world  was  blotted  out,  and 
she  lived  apart  with  this  new-found  revelation.  Into 
her  poverty  of  life  there  had  come  riches,  and  the 
magnitude  dazed  her. 

Once  clear  of  the  village,  and  headed  towards  the 
Rocks  of  the  Bears,  Roger  Patcham  roused  her. 

"  They  mean  well,  the  folk,"  said  he,  riding  noisily 
up  to  her  side  and  speaking  with  hard  bluntness. 
"  For  the  moment,  too,  they  seem  in  earnest.  No 
doubt  they  may  remember  for  a  year,  or,  say,  until 
the  next  mildew.  There  is  nought  like  a  mildew  to 
stir  a  fool  peasant." 


264  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

Round  upon  him  turned  Denise,  a  hot  spot  burn- 
ing on  each  cheek. 

"  Shame,  Captain  Patcham,  shame  on  your  sneer- 
ing tongue!  Not  even  you  shall  so  belittle  my 
folk." 

"  What,  Mademoiselle  ?  Did  they  seem  to  you 
in  earnest  ?  " 

"  Aye,  and  I  thank  God  for  it.  I  never  dreamed 
they  loved  me  so." 

"  But  once  you  are  in  Saint  Marzier,  Mademoiselle, 
I  fear " 

"  Oh ! "  and  the  cheeks  that  had  grown  white 
again  flushed  anew,  but  not  this  time  in  anger ;  "  I 
pray  of  you,  Father  Roger,  let  there  be  no  more 
talk  of  Saint  Marzier." 

Too  old  a  soldier  to  triumph  in  his  victory, 
Captain  Patcham  reined  back  to  de  Casera's  bridle 
hand. 

"  She  has  changed  her  mind  in  one  thing, 
Messire,"  said  he,  with  a  chuckle,  "  and  so  may 
well  change  it  in  another.  All  this  is  very  pretty, 
but  I  know  these  cattle,  and  a  time  will  come  when 
Lhoeac  will  need  a  man's  hand.  For  all  its  soft 
heart  of  day,  a  peasant's  memory  is  no  longer  than 
the  rest  of  the  world's.  You  said  a  while  back  that 
the  air  of  Guienne  was  unwholesome.  Since  you 
will  not  ride  to  the  Castle,  take  an  old  fool's  advice 
and  try  the  air  of  Meluzza.  I'll  warrant  that  Carlo 
Perego  and  young  Madame  Catherine  will  vouch 
that  it  is  the  finest  air  in  the  world  for  such  a  plague 
as  yours.  It  cured  them  for  life,  and  inside  of  a 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HONOUR.  265 

month.     Thank  the  saints,  there  is  no  more  thought 
of  Saint  Marzier." 

Nor,  in  any  case  could  there  have  been  at  that 
time.  For,  once  within  her  own  familiar  walls, 
nature  gave  way,  and  the  vintage  was  over  before 
Denise  could  so  much  as  bear  the  sweet  freshness 
of  the  late  autumn  sunshine.  Then,  because  firstly 
it  was  Roger  Patcham's  whim,  because  secondly 
Madame  Catherine  had  a  grandson  to  spoil,  and 
thirdly  it  was  sound  sense,  they  moved  south  again 
but  so  slowly  that  it  was  mid-December  before  they 
reached  Meluzza. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND 
ENEMIES. 

I. 

BUT  first  Captain  Patcham  had  his  own  private 
curiosity  to  gratify,  and  being  a  man  of  prompt 
action,  he  lost  no  time  in  its  indulgence.  A  score 
of  times  while  shut  up  in  Saint  Agnes  he  had 
troubled  his  mind  as  to  what  took  the  Franciscan 
so  often  to  the  hind's  hut  beyond  the  cordon.  A 
brother  friar,  sick  and  in  terror  for  his  life,  was  the 
tale,  and  a  tale  probable  enough.  There  are  some 
men  to  whom  not  even  the  frock  gives  courage. 
But  the  veriest  coward  must  surely  show  himself  at 
times,  and  never  once  had  Roger  Patcham  seen  so 
much  as  the  flutter  of  a  second  cassock.  This  un- 
invited brother  of  Saint  Francis  lay  close  as  a  hare, 
and  the  closer  he  lay  the  keener  grew  Captain 
Patcham's  curiosity. 

Probe  the  mystery  from  Saint  Agnes  he  would 
not  and  for  several  reasons,  any  one  of  which  was 
of  itself  sufficient.  The  hut  was  beyond  the  cordon, 
and  therefore  out  of  bounds,  nor  did  it  consort  with 
the  dignity  of  Lhoeac  that  he,  its  chief  captain, 
should  spy  on  a  wandering  friar  But  once  the 
embargo  was  lifted,  and  Denise  delivered  over  to 
Madame  Catherine's  anxious  and  tender  keeping, 
he  easily  persuaded  himself  that  it  was  his  plain 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  267 

duty  to  ascertain  the  whereabouts  of  Father  Luke, 
if  only  to  give  him  thanks  for  his  unsparing  de- 
votion. 

Service  is  like  alms,  and  a  duty,  to  be  well  done, 
should  be  done  promptly,  so  the  forenoon  of  the 
day  after  his  return  to  the  Chateau  found  Roger 
Patcham  riding  slowly  down  the  slope  in  the  too 
familiar  direction  of  Saint  Agnes.  But  while  still 
short  of  the  village  he  drew  to  the  right,  skirted 
round  it,  and  so  approached  the  hut  from  the 
further  side.  It  was  little  better  than  a  summer 
booth.  The  overlapping  planks  that  formed  the 
walls  were  of  the  roughest,  knotted  and  warped. 
A  narrow  slit  in  the  side  opposite  the  crazy,  ill- 
hung  door  had  served  as  a  window  until  the  gap  had 
been  stopped  by  thrusting  into  the  space  a  ragged, 
twisted  sack.  Upon  the  roof,  to  dull  the  fierceness 
of  the  sun's  heat,  was  a  foot's  thickness  of  parched 
earth.  Altogether  it  was  a  wretched  hovel,  and  not 
even  the  swine  of  Lhoeac  were  as  ill-housed. 

Tieing  his  beast  to  a  hook  driven  into  the  wall, 
Roger  Patcham  drew  down  the  hanging  latch,  and 
pushed  at  the  door  without  the  ceremony  of  knock- 
ing, but  it  was  fastened  inside. 

"  Open,  within  there  !  "  he  cried,  shaking  the 
door  impatiently,  for  the  check  annoyed  him.  He 
was  not  accustomed  to  shot  bolts  within  the  four 
corners  of  the  Suzerainty.  "  It  is  I,  Father  Luke : 
Captain  Patcham  ;  open,  man,  open  !  " 

Then  with  head  aside  he  stood  listening,  but 
there  was  neither  answer  nor  stir  of  life. 


268  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  Plague  take  the  monk,"  he  muttered,  talking  to 
himself  as  a  man  will  when  worried,  and  with  no 
heed  to  the  sinister  appositeness  of  the  ejaculation. 
"  If  he  be  within,  why  not  answer  ?  and  if  he  has 
quitted  the  place,  then  how  upon  earth  is  the  door 
bolted  on  the  inside  ?  It  smells  of  Sathanas.  Open, 
you  fools,  open,  and  quickly  ! " 

But  the  second  call  was  as  barren  as  the  first.  He 
must  bide  without  or  find  his  own  way  of  entrance. 
Never  the  first.  Losing  the  little  patience  he  had 
left,  Roger  Patcham  lifted  a  heavy  stone  and  flung 
it  against  the  frail  barrier,  splitting  it  into  two 
leaves,  which  swung  inwards  with  a  crash.  The 
sharp  contrast  between  the  clear  sunshine  and  the 
blackness  of  the  interior  for  a  moment  blinded 
him  ;  then  swiftly  the  inner  walls  grew  to  shape 
and  substance. 

The  within  was  as  wretched  as  the  without,  but 
if  the  hut  contained  little,  that  little  was  enough, 
and  more  than  he  looked  to  find.  Halting  midway 
across  the  threshold,  Roger  Patcham  stood  and 
stared.  There,  near  the  right-hand  further  angle, 
propped  up  on  the  floor,  was  a  rude  cross  ;  no 
crucifix,  not  even  planed  wood,  nothing  but  a 
rough  upright,  as  rough  as  it  came  from  the  wood- 
man's axe,  and  with  as  rough  a  transverse  piece 
bound  across  it  by  a  strand  of  willow-bark.  At  its 
foot  was  a  confused  mass  of  rusty  clothing  that  in 
its  dingy  blackness  blent  itself,  and  merged  into  the 
dusk  of  the  hovel,  but  as  Patcham's  sight  cleared 
the  confusion  took  form.  It  was  Friar  Luke  upon 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  269 

his  knees,  his  bent  head  and  shoulders  fallen  against 
the  wall,  and  one  lean  hand  flung  back  towards  the 
middle  of  the  floor.  But  there  was  no  need  of  the 
arm's  uncouth  twist  to  make  known  the  truth,  for 
every  helpless,  pathetic  curve  in  the  sunken  body 
told  its  tale. 

"  Dead  !  "  said  Patcham,  startled  into  speech,  and 
his  nerve  shaken  by  the  suddenness  of  the  thing. 
Then,  baring  his  head,  involuntarily  he  stepped 
forward  on  tiptoe  and  laid  his  head  on  the  monk's 
shoulder.  "  The  plague  !  By  all  the  saints,  the 
plague  ! "  he  cried,  starting  back  ;  "  now  I  know 
why  he  fled  the  place  in  secret  and  without  a  fare- 
well. May  God  have  mercy  on  him  for  a  martyr. 
He  came  to  die  here  in  his  loneliness  lest  the  folk 

yonder   should Aye,  but   what  of   his  fellow? 

Has  the  coward  left  him  to  die  untended  in  this 
kennel  like  a  dog?  " 

Straightening  himself,  Roger  Patcham  looked 
round  the  mean  hut.  Filthy,  squalid,  sordid,  the 
blackness  of  its  solitude  must  have  made  it  a  terrify- 
ing and  a  sorrowful  death-chamber.  Remote  from 
the  voice  and  touch  of  his  kind  the  Franciscan  in 
the  last  and  awful  abnegation  of  repentance  had 
given  himself  to  God  upon  his  knees,  unafraid  for 
all  his  sense  of  sin.  Ah  !  there  was  a  man  !  To  die 
in  a  crowd,  in  the  heat  and  struggle  of  battle,  full 
in  the  approving  eye  of  the  world,  striking  blow  for 
blow  for  life  and  staking  your  skill  and  strength 
against  another's,  is,  to  many  a  man,  to  most  men, 
Roger  Patcham  told  himself,  not  so  hard.  The 


2;o  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

emulation,  the  passion  in  the  blood,  a  man's  faith 
in  his  own  star,  all  make  for  daring  and  courage. 
But  to  be  stricken  with  a  mortal  and  loathsome 
sickness  and  efface  one's  self ;  to  walk  solitary  into 
the  gathered  shadows  of  the  dark  valley  ;  to  face 
God  alone,  uncomforted  by  human  thought  or  care, 
and  all  for  the  blessing  and  safeguarding  of  another 
who  knows  nothing  of  the  sacrifice,  is  the  labour  of 
a  hero  ten  times  told. 

Alone  ?  Stay,  what  was  that  yonder  ?  Roger 
Patcham  was  surely  unstrung  that  day,  for  of  a 
sudden  he  started  and  drew  back  a  step,  groping 
behind  him  till  his  fingers  touched  the  rude  and 
splintered  roughness  of  the  lapped  boards.  Along 
the  opposite  wall  of  the  cabin  and  three  feet  from 
its  floor  a  shelf-like  bed  was  fixed,  coffin-shaped, 
and  no  more  than  a  couple  of  narrow  planks  with 
one  broader  plank  turned  edge  up  to  form  the  side. 
In  the  shadow  cast  by  the  broken  door  it  had 
remained  hidden  until  now,  but  a  blur  in  the  dark- 
ness had  grown  from  grey  to  dull  parchment-yellow, 
and  all  at  once  Patcham  was  aware  of  two  eyes 
watching  him  fixedly  across  the  ledge — eyes  that 
never  shifted  their  unwinking  stare  ;  an  evil  face, 
thin  for  all  its  breadth  of  bone,  and  with  the  one 
cheek  that  was  visible  covered  by  a  five  days' 
bristle,  stiff,  grizzled,  and  thick-set. 

"  Hulloa!  Master  Monk  ;  so  you  are  there  ?  and 
playing  fox  after  the  manner  of  your  kind.  Shame 
upon  you  to  leave  the  man  who  tended  you  in  your 
sickness  to  die  in  a  corner  while  you  lay  there  at 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  271 

your  ease  !  What  ?  You  are  sullen,  are  you  ?  " 
he  went  on,  as  the  steadfast  gaze  neither  shrunk 
nor  wavered.  "  By  the  faith  of  Roger  Patcham,  if 
thou  wilt  not  rouse  for  the  sake  of  the  dead  thou 
wilt  for  the  strength  of  the  living !  Out  of  that 
thou  shalt  come,  my  friend,  though  a  cardinal's 

scarlet  covered  you  in  place  of  a  beggarly Saints ! 

who  are  you,  man  ?     Where  have  I  seen My 

God  !  it  is  Monseigneur  himself,  and— and— as  cold 
clay  as  the  other." 

"  You  see,"  he  said  to  Madame  Catherine  when, 
having  shifted  his  tainted  clothes  and  thrust  them 
well  into  the  heart  of  a  roaring  fire,  he  unfolded 
the  news ;  "  the  poor  monk  served  us  better  than 
he  knew.  God  forbid  that  I  should  wrong  the 
dead,  but  if  Henri  de  Lhoeac  was  not  in  that  hut 
for  an  evil  end  why  was  he  there  at  all  ?  To  bring 
us  his  blessing  and  his  prayers  ?  He  could  have 
prayed  and  blessed  from  Bordeaux  to  as  good 
purpose.  No,  little  of  praying  and  blessing,  saving, 
as  they  say,  the  devil  does  both  backwards,  so 
what  I  ask  myself  is  this  :  had  Saint-Seurin  and 
Libourne  failed  to  fill  his  purse  as  fast  as  he  emptied 
it,  and  so  he  turned  anew  to  Lhoeac,  using  that 
honest,  crack-brained  stray  enthusiast  to  work  his 
ends  ?  A  shrewd  man  was  Monseigneur,  and  no 
one  could  better  light  a  fire  to  warm  himself  with- 
out setting  his  own  hand  to  the  torch.  I  grant  you 
that  of  the  closed  chapel  he  knew  nothing,  but  he 
knew  the  stuff  the  people  were  made  of,  and  how, 
in  the  time  of  their  terror,  religion  runs  mad,  and 


272  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

so  they  might  be  swayed  by  just  such  a  one  as 
Friar  Luke.  D'you  think,  now,  it  was  he  suggested 
the  wrath  of  God  that  so  filled  the  poor  monk? 
Well,  the  curse  went  home  to  roost,  for  the  man 
died  of  the  plague,  and  died  alone,  fearful  of  his  end 
and  staring  at  that  pitiful  rubble  of  humanity  in 
the  corner.  I  could  wish  him  no  worse." 

"Poor  soul!  poor  soul!  Alone,  and  at  such  a 
time." 

"  Poor  soul  ?  What  was  the  poor  soul  doing 
there?  Tell  me?  If  he  came  for  good,  why  not 
have  come  to  the  Chateau  ?  I  think  you  women 
would  pity  the  very  devil  if  he  were  but  sick 
enough." 

"  And — and — what  next,  Captain  Patcham  ?  Re- 
member that  after  all  he  was  a  Lhoeac." 

"  Never  fear  but  he  shall  have  a  noble  funeral," 
answered  Roger,  rising  as  he  spoke,  for  he  had  no 
mind  to  be  further  questioned.  "  But  of  him  and 
of  Father  Luke  say  nothing,  lest  the  folk  take 
fright  and  lose  heart  afresh.  A  Lhoeac  ?  Yes,  but 
Mademoiselle  Denise  has  one  bitter  foe  the  less, 
and  as  I  said  at  the  first  the  monk  served  us  better 
than  he  knew." 

But  of  Captain  Patcham's  discovery  in  the  shep- 
herd's cabin,  and  of  the  going  up  of  that  cabin  in 
fire  the  same  night,  to  the  great  bewilderment  of 
Saint  Agnes,  Denise  knew  nothing  until  the  visit  to 
Meluzza  had  come  and  gone.  And  then,  though 
awed  and  struck  with  womanly  pity  at  the  miser- 
able end  of  the  man  who  was  the  last  Lhoeac  in 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  273 

direct  descent,  too  much  of  gladness  had  come  into 
her  life  to  leave  room  for  sorrow.  Nor,  by  reason 
of  this  same  gladness,  could  she  withhold  forgive- 
ness from  Henri  de  Lhoeac,  much  as  he  had  sinned 
against  her.  Present  blessing  wipes  out  past  pain, 
and  the  evil  he  had  wrought  for  his  selfish  ends 
was  forgotten  for  the  good  he  at  the  same  time  so 
unwittingly  and  unexpectedly  worked  out. 

Had  Madame  Catherine  had  her  way  the  story 
would  have  been  fully  told  the  first  day  the  shadow 
of  death  passed  from  the  face  of  Denise.  A  timor- 
ous woman,  the  secret  weighed  upon  her,  for  while 
it  was  reasonable  that  the  end  of  Father  Luke — one 
amongst  thousands — should  be  lost  in  indifference, 
it  seemed  little  less  than  sacrilege  that  the  fate  of 
such  a  noble  churchman  as  his  Eminence  should  re- 
main hidden.  But  Roger  Patcham  would  none  of  it. 
"  No,  no,  no  ;  Mademoiselle  is  more  to  us  than 
the  whole  College  of  Cardinals,  living  or  dead. 
She  has  had  fret  enough  in  her  life  of  late,  and 
from  all  that  went  on  in  Bordeaux  she  will  take 
Monseigneur's  death  hard,  though,  for  that  matter, 
what  passed  in  Bordeaux  was  a  bigger  handful  than 
I  could  grasp.  Wait,  Madame,  till  she  has  Caterina 
for  comfort,  and  the  prattle  of  the  little  one  about 
her.  Love  and  a  child  will  cure  a  sore  heart  sooner 
than  aught  else  in  the  world." 

But  even  in  Meluzza  the  telling  was  put  off  from 
day  to  day,  until  presently  the  shadow  of  Made- 
moiselle's living  kindred  loomed  larger  and  nearer 
than  that  of  the  dead. 


274  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

II. 

Some  men  while  young  are  like  certain  vintages, 
rough,  coarse,  heady,  difficult  ;  they  only  mellow 
and  grow  fit  for  men's  using  after  many  years  ;  but 
let  them  ripen,  let  them  translate  exuberance  to 
power,  and  they  are  the  very  strength  and  glory  of 
their  times.  Such  was  not  Luigi  di  Gadola.  The 
lees  of  his  hot  and  evil  youth  stirred  in  him  even  in 
his  middle  age,  and  all  the  mellowness  the  years  had 
brought  was  that  of  selfish,  cruel  cunning  and  a 
wider  appetite  for  whatsoever  pleasured  him. 

If  not  a  great  man,  he  had  at  least  one  strong 
attribute  of  greatness :  he  could  bide  his  time. 
When,  therefore,  his  attempt  upon  Meluzza  failed, 
as  has  been  told,  he  merely  cursed  more  heartily 
than  was  his  wont,  and  hung  the  project  up  until  a 
more  convenient  season. 

The  coming  of  his  opportunity  had  been  put  off 
a  little  longer  than  he  had  reckoned,  but  by  neither 
fault  nor  neglect  of  his.  Calmly  certain  that  sooner 
or  later  the  pear  would  drop  into  his  hand,  he  could 
afford  to  turn  his  thoughts  abroad  for  that  aggran- 
disement denied  him  for  the  moment  at  home. 
Besides,  the  stable  government  of  Caesar  Borgia  in 
the  Romagna  had  its  effect  even  in  Northern  Italy, 
so  that  for  a  very  brief  space  it  became  the  fashion 
to  look  askance  at  violence  when  the  crime  was  not 
in  the  direct  interest  of  a  sovereign  prince. 

When  it  can  be  enforced  it  is  a  wise  rule  that  that 
which  creates  a  wrong  should  remedy  the  wrong, 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  275 

and  Luigi  di  Gadola  being  thus  injured  by  this 
fatherly  government,  determined  that  Caesar  Borgia 
should  repay  his  loss.  To  him,  therefore,  he  at- 
tached himself,  prospering  with  him  until  the  day 
that  Julius  the  Second  arose  and  Caesar's  dream  of 
a  united  Italy  swayed  by  a  long  line  of  Borgias 
went  the  way  of  all  dreams  ;  but  being  an  astute 
man,  Luigi  di  Gadola  escaped  his  patron's  ruin, 
tolerably  well  content  to  have  lost  no  more  in  the 
end  than  he  had  gained  in  the  beginning.  Then 
came  his  leisure  to  think  once  more  of  Meluzza,  and 
with  his  leisure  came  his  tools  and  his  opportunity. 
The  one  he  found  ready  to  his  hand,  the  other, 
like  a  diligent  and  watchful  man,  he  made  for  him- 
self out  of  the  material  chance  provided.  Indeed, 
tools  there  were  in  plenty,  for  masterless  men. 
plundering  reivers,  rogues  in  grain  stripped  of  all 
virtues  save  the  one  of  courage,  were  never  more 
rife  than  in  that  winter  which  found  Denise  at 
Meluzza  for  the  second  time.  Be  sure  that  with 
Carlo  Perego  in  his  mind  Messire  di  Gadola  made 
no  second  mistake  in  his  choice  of  chief  rascal.  Not 
even  his  own  disappointment  at  the  former  failure 
rankled  as  did  the  knowledge  that  the  man  he  had 
raised  from  the  gutters  of  Turin  lorded  it  in  the 
house  he  had  been  hired  to  win  for  his  patron.  It 
says  much  for  di  Gadola's  self-restraint  that  he  had 
given  Master  Perego  such  long  license,  but  then  the 
Seigneur  of  Casa  Foscotti  was  in  many  respects 
quite  a  superior  scoundrel,  and,  after  all,  the  man 
who  can  hang  up  his  hat  in  his  private  closet  until 


276  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

it  suits  him  best  to  wear  it  is  the  man  to  be  truly 
dreaded.  But  a  second  Carlo  Perego !  No,  no, 
with  Tito  Zucchi  he  would  run  no  risks  of  failure 
from  unimagined  scruples. 

Doubtless  something  of  the  sort  was  in  his  mind 
as,  in  the  same  room  and  over  the  same  table  where 
he  had  made  Carlo  Perego  feel  the  purchasing 
power  of  forty  crowns  a  month,  he  mapped  out  the 
coming  campaign  to  the  newest  military  governor 
— a  campaign  this  time  of  sheer  violence  and  brute 
strength.  But  if  in  Tito  Zucchi  he  had  a  surer 
man  to  deal  with,  he  had  also  one  whose  wit  was  as 
shrewd  as  his  own. 

"  This  is  very  well,  Messire,"  answered  he,  but 
shaking  his  head  at  the  same  time.  "  The  scheme 
is  as  clear  as  daylight.  '  Rake  out  the  chestnuts 
from  the  fire,'  said  the  monkey  to  the  cat — no 
offence,  you  understand — '  and  we'll  go  shares.'  If 
the  hearth  were  cold  the  plan  would  work  to  ad- 
miration, but "  and  he  ended  with  another 

shake  of  his  close-cropped  head  that  was  as  elo- 
quent as  the  rhetoric  of  the  whole  Three  Estates. 

"Ah!  ah!  a  coward  !  "  said  di  Gadola,  knowing 
very  well  that  he  lied,  but  not  scrupling  to  gain 
his  end  by  a  lie ;  "  and  where,  may  I  ask,  have  you 
found  hot  chestnuts  to  be  had  without  the  risking 
of  scorched  paws  ?  They  never  came  my  way  at 
Casa  Foscotti." 

It  was  characteristic  of  Tito  Zucchi  that  he 
passed  by  the  imputation  unanswered.  He  was  no 
man  to  cry  out  before  he  was  hurt,  and  such  a  pin- 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  277 

prick  scored  his  hide  not  at  all.  He  knew  well  it 
was  but  a  move  in  the  game,  a  feint  as  it  were,  and 
not  a  well-meant  thrust  that  called  for  a  wary  parry 
and  a  sharp  return.  If  the  patron  believed  what  he 
said  he  would  not  have  had  him  at  Casa  Foscotti, 
nor  delayed  the  saying  till  then. 

"  Scorched  paws  are  my  trade,  Signer,  and  the 
hotter  the  fire  the  larger  my  share  of  chestnuts. 
That  is  my  rule  and  a  thing  of  course.  Let  it  blaze 
an*  welcome  say  I.  But  this  is  no  petty  stab  in  the 
dark.  What  if  the  cat  rakes  out  the  chestnuts  and 
sets  the  house  in  a  roar  with  the  scattering  of  the 
embers?  He  might  be  burnt  hide  and  claws  and 
the  monkey  no  whit  the  worse." 

"  Tut  man,  be  plain,  and  leave  fables  to  children." 

"  I  desire  nothing  better,  Signer.  Suppose,  now, 
this  raid  well  over.  What  if  Messire  Perego  and 
Mademoiselle  de  Lhoeac  have  friends  strong 
enough  to  move  the  Pope,  or  even  Sforza." 

"  They  have  none,  so  that  is  settled." 

"  Oh  !  by  your  leave,  Signer,  that  is  easier  said 
than  known,  and  it  is  hard  for  a  man  to  be  wise 
after  he  is  hung." 

"  Well,  suppose  you  are  right — though  you  are 
wrong — what  then  ?  " 

"  According  to  your  plan,  Signor,  you  play  gen- 
eralissimo, and  direct  the  campaign  from  Casa 
Foscotti  while  we  see  the  thing  through  at  Meluzza. 
If  it  were  a  small  affair  I  would  ask  nothing  better, 
but  this  may  m;ikc  a  noise." 

"  Come  to  the  point,  man,  bluntly." 


278  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  Bluntly  then,  Signer,  you  must  lead  in  person, 
or  at  least  seem  to  do  so.  Then  if  the  Pope  moves, 
or  Sforza,  he  cannot  in  common  justice  touch  poor 
Tito  Zucchi  until  he  has  dealt  with  the  Seigneur 
of  Casa  Foscotti,  whereby,  for  the  sake  of  the 
noble  Seigneur  poor  Tito  may  come  off  with  a 
whole  skin.  The  point  lies  there." 

"  But,  fool,  whether  I  be  here  or  there  I  will  be 
as  deep  in  it  as  thou.  The  hand  that  holds  the 
dagger  gets  the  blame  whether  blood  trickles  across 
the  knuckles  or  no.  Two  leaders  may  botch  it. 
Let  it  be  as  we  planned." 

"  As  you  planned,  Signer,  not  we,  and  I  do  not 
ride  alone.  Trust  me,  there  will  be  no  botching." 

"  But  why,  man,  why  ?  I  have  my  reasons  for 
not  showing  in  this  thing." 

"I  do  not  doubt  you  have,  Signor,  and  good 
reasons,"  answered  the  other,  with  grim  irony, 
"  but  to  be  blunt  as  you  bade  me,  it  is  by  reason  of 
the  reasons  I  am  afraid.  The  hand  may  bear  the 
blame,  but  what  of  the  tongue  or  the  brain  behind 
the  hand  ?  May  not  the  one  say, '  That  was  not  by 
my  command  '  ?  and  the  other,  '  That  was  no 
thought  of  mine '  ?  Plainly,  supposing  the  Pope 
moves — and  Julius  has  the  longest  arm  that  has 
stretched  from  St.  Peter's  chair  this  many  a  day— 
what  is  to  prevent  Messire  di  Gadola  from  disavow- 
ing Tito  Zucchi  ?  Nay,  in  his  zeal  for  justice  and 
anger  at  his  sore  loss,  Messire  di  Gadola  might  even 
avenge  his  dear  kinswoman  on  poor  Tito  Zucchi  ! 
No  offence,  Signor,  no  offence,  but  I  have  learned 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  279 

policy  under  Caesar  Borgia.  A  charming  mannered 
man  was  the  King  of  Romagna — courtesy  itself, 
affable  and  condescending ;  but  if  a  tool  were  like 
to  cut  his  fingers  then  God  have  mercy  on  the  tool, 
let  it  have  done  its  master  what  service  it  might." 

It  is  to  di  Gadola's  credit  that  he  contested  the 
point  no  further,  nor,  in  his  turn,  did  he  repel  the 
allegation.  It  was  a  thrust  in  reply  to  his  feint 
with  this  difference,  that  there  was  a  purpose  be- 
hind it. 

"  The  plan  is  settled,  then,  and  I  go  in  command. 
But  it  seems  to  me  you  too  early  assume  success. 
This  Perego  is  neither  fool  nor  coward — by  the 
Saints  !  no  !  the  man  who  plays  me  false  and  scores 
is  neither  one  nor  the  other — and  now  he  has  this 
grizzled  English  pick-purse  to  back  him.  Never 
trust  an  Englishman  when  he  calls  himself  honest. 
'Tis  the  devil  turned  sick  and  the  more  dangerous. 
But  that's  by  the  way." 

"  The  plan  is  settled,  Signer,  and  the  thing  as 
good  as  done.  Why,  in  itself  it  is  nought ;  'tis 
what  comes  after  a  man  has  to  look  to.  Thrice 
before  have  I  carried  through  just  such  a  scheme 
and  never  heard  that  the  day  after  either  side  found 
fault,  but  for  different  reasons.  Twice  it  was  in  the 
Abruzzi,  and  once  to  the  honour  and  profit  of  no 
less  a  man  than — no,  never  mind  for  whom.  Once 
done,  these  things  are  best  forgotten.  And  yet 
there  is  something  that  sticks  in  my  mind.  Ah, 
!  \vc  used  fire  instead  of  steel.  It  was  his  whim, 
and  if  the  blaze  be  but  high  enough  up,  all  men 


280  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

shut  their  eyes.  By  Peter  and  Paul,  how  the 
wretches  howled  !  " 

"  No  pity,  Messire  Tito  ?  " 

"Pity  roasts  no  chestnuts,  Signer.  Well,  a  short 
memory  is  God's  blessing.  Now  as  to  our  plans. 
There  are  three  heads  :  the  time,  the  men,  the 
details  ;  and  the  first  is  for  discussion,  the  second  is 
your  business,  and  the  third,  Messire,  by  your  leave 
I  shall  attend  to." 

"  The  time  ?  "  answered  di  Gadola,  "  say  six  days 
hence." 

"  Ha  !  Christmas-eve  ?  You  have  a  sour  wit, 
Signer.  Peace  on  earth  and  good-will  to  men  ? 
Agreed  as  to  the  time.  The  wit  is  as  wise  as  it  is 
sour.  '  A  jesting  man  keep  slight  watch,'  says  the 
proverb.  Now  the  men  ?  " 

"  With  those  seven  that  came  in  a  fortnight  since 
we  have  enough,  and  that  I  go  with  you  in  your 
guarantee  for  that." 

"  Those  seven  ?  De  Casera  and  his  half-dozen  ? 
Signor,  I  do  not  like  this  de  Casera.  What  the 
plague  does  a  fellow  with  a  de  to  his  name  want 
with  five  crowns  a  month?  " 

"  Let  de  Casera  be ;  I  know  his  sort.  'Tis  odd, 
but  there  is  no  more  unscrupulous  rogue  than  your 
broken  gentleman  ;  as  if  a  man  who  was  damned  for 
this  world  cared  little  if  he  was  damned  for  the 
next  too.  I  tell  you  I  like  him  the  better  that  he 
flaunts  his  gentility.  There  is  the  more  expected  of 
him,  and  he  must  live  up  to  his  profession.  Now 
what  is  this  fellow?  A  man  of  the  south,  since 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  281 

Casera  is  a  Pope's  fief  ;  therefore  he  knows  nought 
of  Perego,  who  lives  in  the  north.  Next,  having  won 
a  something  by  his  sword — and  no  trifle  as  I  think 
— he  crosses  to  France  full  and  comes  back  empty, 
and  so  has  no  love  for  the  French.  What  then  ? 
Will  he  scruple  to  plunder  France  because  France 
bides  at  Meluzza  and  not  in  Guienne  ?  No,  by  the 
Mass,  not  he  !  My  dear  kinswoman  is  as  much  his 
foe  as  another.  But  have  him  in  and  satisfy  your- 
self." 

"  I  would  we  had  tried  him  on  some  smaller 
devilment  first,  Signer.  My  gentleman's  stomach 
may  turn  squeamish." 

"  Then  it  would  have  turned  any  time  these  two 
weeks  past,"  answered  di  Gadola,  with  a  sneer,  and 
not  sorry  to  get  a  lunge  home.  "  I  do  not  mix  with 
it  myself,  but  your  hounds'  society  is  none  of  the 
sweetest." 

"The  dog  follows  his  master,  Signer,"  replied 
Zucchi,  giving  his  patron  blow  for  blow,  "  but  let 
us  have  in  this  broken  wastrel,  this  night  of  the 
Defaced  Scutcheon  !  My  word  !  that  our  camp 
scum  should  catch  at  five  crowns  a  month  is  no 
wonder,  but  that  a  man  with  a  de  to  his  name 
should  fall  so " 

"  Five  crowns  are  better  than  pride  and  a  tight 
belt,"  said  di  Gadola,  striking  as  he  spoke  a  small 
hand  gong  which  hung  upon  the  wall.  "Ask 
Monsieur  de  Casera  to  join  us  here." 

"Ask,  Monseiur  !  By  Peter  and  Paul  but  you  are 
polite.  Is  the  man  not  your  hireling  like  the  rest  ?  " 


282  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

Round  upon  his  jackal  swung  di  Gadola,  his 
mouth  twisted  into  a  snarl. 

"  My  words  and  thoughts  are  my  own,  Master 
Zucchi ;  learn  thou  to  keep  thy  place." 

And  though  the  face  of  the  lower  scoundrel 
flushed  and  darkened,  he  answered  never  a  word. 
The  Seigneur  of  Casa  Foscotti  paid  good  wages,  and 
trade  was  dull  by  reason  of  much  competition, — so 
dull  that  not  even  an  accomplished  rascal  like  Tito 
Zucchi  could  afford  to  quarrel  with  his  meat  lest  he 
go  empty,  and  the  silence  that  followed  di  Gadola's 
retort  remained  unbroken  till  de  Casera  made  a 
third  in  strange  company. 

Even  then  the  silence  continued.  To  say  to  a 
man,  "  We  suspect  you  ;  are  you  faithful  ?  "  was  little 
use,  since  he  would  answer,  "  Yes,"  and  leave  them 
none  the  wiser  whether  it  was  truth  or  lie  ;  so  for  a 
time  they  stared  at  him,  one  across  the  chair-back 
as  he  sat  astride,  the  other  hunched  forward  with 
folded  arms  against  the  table  edge.  As  for  de 
Casera,  he  bowed  slightly  to  the  patron,  then  waited 
on  him,  alert  but  unconcerned,  as  a  captain  with  a 
good  conscience  might  upon  his  general.  Of 
Zucchi  he  took  no  notice  at  all. 

"  Thou  hast  been  drawing  pay  these  fourteen 
days,"  began  di  Gadola  at  last,  "  but  the  time  has 
almost  come  when  we  shall  have  work  for  thee  ;  a 
small  command,  perhaps.  Therefore,  we — 

"  The  hiring  suited  both  you  and  me,"  broke  in 
de  Casera,  "  but  there  is  no  room  in  it  forthee'sand 
thou's.  And  who  are  we?  Are  there  two  masters 
in  Casa  Foscotti  ?  " 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  283 

"  One  lord,  but  two  masters,"  said  Zucchi. 
"  What  ?  Seigneur,  am  I  right  ?  " 

"  No,  by  the  Mass,  no  ;  thou  art  wrong.  There 
is  but  one  master  at  Casa  Foscotti." 

"Ah  !"  said  de  Casera,  "1  understand  now. 
Monsieur  di  Gadola  was  long  the  friend  of  sovereign 
princes,  and  their  style  is  infectious." 

"  What  ?  You  would  gibe,  you  would  gibe  ?  " 
burst  out  Zucchi  starting  to  his  feet.  "  Signer,  can 
you  endure  these  insults?" 

"  No  insults  to  me,  since  more  than  Borgia,  and 
as  high  as  he,  have  called  me  friend  ;  nor  do  I  need 
any  man  to  school  me  in  my  own  quarrel." 

"  To  me,  then,  and  for  the  fourth  time  in  ten 
days.  Had  we  not  had  Meluzza  in  hand  —  but 
listen  to  me,  my  cock  -  " 

"  No  brawling,"  broke  in  di  Gadola  authoritatively, 
44  at  least  not  for  seven  days  ;  after  that  !  "  and  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  "  I  care  not  a  quattrino 
what  you  do." 

44  You  spoke  of  some  small  command,  Messire?" 

"  Aye."  For  a  moment  di  Gadola  sat  silent, 
gnawing  his  lip,  then  went  on  slowly,  44  You  have 
eaten  Casa  Foscotti's  bread  and  salt?" 

44  True,  Messire,  for  hire." 

44  Aye,  but  hire  will  not  always  buy  faithfulness, 
and  when  it  comes  to  a  command  -  "  Then  he 
stopped  short.  44  You  understand?"  he  added  at 


From  his  pouch  de  Casera  drew  five  silver  pieces 
and  laid  them  on  the  table. 


284  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  Hold  these  till  all  is  over,"  said  he,  "  then  pay 
me  what  I  am  worth." 

"  On  my  word  you  rate  your  faith  cheaply,"  said 
Zucchi  settling  himself  back  on  his  stool,  "but 
every  man  knows  his  own  price.  Five  crowns ! 
Well!  I  don't  dispute  the  valuation." 

"  Tis  the  hire  of  a  life." 

"  And  the  faith  is  worth  no  more  than  the  life  ? 
It  was  not  so  we  were  taught  in  our  school,  but,  as 
I  say,  I  grant  you  it  is  full  value." 

"  Some  schooling  is  soon  forgot,"  answered  de 
Casera  drily,  "  or  it  may  be  the  memory  is  con- 
venient. I  go  or  I  stay,  Messire  di  Gadola,  which 
you  will,  but  I  tell  this  hectoring  bully  to  his  face 
that  I  pledge  myself  to  nothing  beyond  faith  to 
faithfulness." 

"  And  who  asks  more?"  replied  di  Gadola. 

But  it  may  be  that  their  ideals  of  fidelity  were 
not  alike,  and  that  de  Casera  held  that  the  murder- 
ing of  women  and  babes  in  the  dark  smacked  of  the 
treacherous,  for  the  next  day  Carlo  Perego  received 
this  message  :  "  Keep  close  watch,  for  it  will  come 
within  seven  days. — C." 

III. 

To  one  overwrought  as  Denise  had  been  the  slow 
journey  from  Lhoeac  was  a  gain  rather  than  a  loss 
for  all  attendant  fatigues.  Broken  in  nerve  and 
driven  in  upon  herself,  the  bustle  and  daily  variety 
of  the  road  acted  like  a  cordial,  and  by  the  time 
Caterina,  with  a  small  wide-eyed  Guy  clinging  to 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  285 

her  skirts,  welcomed  her  at  the  great  door  of 
Meluzza,  there  was  little  outward  trace  of  the  heavy 
strain  borne  by  both  flesh  and  spirit  through  the 
dragging  summer. 

"  She  is  graver  than  of  old,"  Caterina  told  her 
husband.  "  Denise  was  always  deeper  natured 
than  I,  and  the  years  have  cleared  the  depths  so 
that  we  see  them  better,  but  had  my  mother  not 
told  us  the  story  of  Saint  Agnes  I  would  never  have 
guessed  it  for  myself." 

"  Deeper  natured  she  may  be,"  answered  Carlo, 
taking  his  wife's  cheeks  between  his  hands  and 
tilting  up  the  chin  in  a  fashion  that  bespoke  practice, 
'*  but  give  me  the  shallower  waters  with  their  play 
of  life  and  sunshine.  Let  the  depths  be  never  so 
clear  there  is  always  something  hidden  ;  therefore," 
and  he  kissed  the  mouth  that  waited  for  what  it 
knew  was  coming,  "  see  that  in  the  babble  which 
will  come  presently  nothing  is  said  of  that  French- 
man. Let  what  will  be  work  itself  out  without  our 
help,  lest  we  blunder  and  get  no  thanks/' 

Babble  !  For  all  that  he  had  married  but  one 
wife,  and  seen  little  of  women  for  these  seven  years, 
Carlo  Perego  knew  their  ways.  Grave  Denise  and 
gay  Caterina  had  long  arrears  of  gossip  to  make  up, 
and  their  talk  was  pushed  far  into  the  night.  Talk, 
on  the  one  side  of  Meluzza  and  little  Guy,  of  Carlo, 
and  again  of  little  Guy,  of  Casa  Foscotti,  and  yet 
again  of  Guy.  Whatsoever  the  germ  of  talk  was, 
whether  the  happiness  that  had  come  to  her  these 
last  years,  Carlo's  goodness  and  cleverness,  how  he 


286  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

had  realised  Roger  Patcham's  prophecy  and  turned 
the  seven  hundred  crowns  into  five-and-twenty 
hundred,  or  the  shadow  that  Luigi  di  Gadola  cast 
across  their  peace,  the  fruit  and  full  development 
of  it  all  was  little  Guy  ;  his  laughter,  his  tears,  his 
strength,  his  weakness  ;  until  Denise  asked  with  a 
smile  if  the  love  for  the  son  had  already  eclipsed 
that  for  the  father. 

"Ah!  no,  no,  never  that,"  and  Caterina's  face 
softened  and  grew  wistful  as  it  had  not  done  through 
all  her  changeful  chatter  ;  "  their  dearness  is  never 
alike,  for  there  is  this  difference  :  of  the  one  it  is 
easy  to  talk,  but  the  other — that — that — ah  !  that  is 
the  stripping  bare  of  the  heart  for  the  world  to  peep 
at,  and  so  a  kind  of  profanation.  Some  day,  dear, 
you  will  understand." 

But  Denise,  though  she  held  her  peace,  thought 
sorrowfully  that  she  understood  over-well  already 
and  had  little  left  to  learn.  Nay,  within  the  very 
hour  she  proved  it,  since  when  it  came  to  gossip 
upon  her  side  there  were  more  blanks  in  the  record 
of  the  years  than  her  cousin  dreamed  of,  for,  though 
of  Lhoeac  she  spoke  at  large,  of  Saint  Agnes  she 
said  but  little,  and  of  Bordeaux  nothing  at  all. 

But  the  women's  gossip  was  not  the  only  con- 
ference carried  on  in  Meluzza  that  night.  Carlo 
Perego  had  much  to  say  to  Roger  Patcham,  to 
whom  rather  than  to  Denise  he  looked  to  give  an 
account  of  his  stewardship.  The  making  of  Meluzza 
had  been  a  man's  work,  and  to  a  man  only  could  the 
tale  be  fully  told,  from  the  first  curbing  of  riotous 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  287 

waste  down  to  the  growing  danger  threatened  from 
Casa  Foscotti. 

"  This  time  he  will  spoil  nothing  with  haste,  so 
that  for  months  I  have  seen  the  storm  gathering, 
and  have  had  leisure  on  my  side  to  prepare  to  meet 
it.  But  now  all  that  is  done  with.  The  coming  of 
Mademoiselle  will  force  a  crisis." 

"  And  the  advantage  lies  with  the  rogue  rather 
than  with  the  honest  man,"  answered  Roger 
Patcham  thoughtfully.  "  He  can  strike  or  hold  his 
hand  as  he  wills,  and  surprise  is  worth  twenty 
men." 

"  But  if  the  surprise  is  no  surprise  ?  What 
then?" 

"  Oh,  ho  !  "  and  Captain  Patcham  roused  himself. 
It  was  long  since  the  intrigue  of  war  had  warmed 
his  brain,  but  the  significance  of  Perego's  words 
could  not  be  misunderstood.  "  You  have  not  told 
me  everything." 

"  This  part  of  the  tale  goes  back — let  me  see,  how 
long  ? — two  months  or  thereabouts.  Aye,  it  was 
mid-Octo"ber,  and,  as  I  say,  I  was  making  ready  for 
Messire  di  Gadola,  but  quietly  ;  picking  up  a  man 
here  and  a  man  there,  leisurely,  you  understand, 
but  with  that  leisure  that  goes  far  in  a  month,  and 
amongst  others  there  came  this  Guiennese.  You 
may  have  heard  of  him  over  there  ;  his  name  is — 

But  Roger  Patcham  remembered  his  own  advice 
and  saw  daylight.  De  Casera,  it  was  clear,  had  kept 
his  own  counsel,  and  Father  Roger  had  no  mind  to 
be  questioned  lest  he  should  compromise  Denise  by 


288  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

showing  that  he  knew  much  while  he  said  little, 
since  to  a  quick  mind  there  is  no  innuendo  so  clear 
as  a  halting  reticence.  Therefore  he  broke  in— 

"  How  should  I  have  heard  of  him?  Guienne  is 
no  pocket  parish  where  each  man  knows  his  neigh- 
bour's affairs  better  than  his  own.  Can  you  trust 
him  ? — that's  the  point.  Good  faith  is  better  than 
a  good  name." 

"  Trust  me  that  I  can  trust  him  !  The  odd  thing 
is  that  his  going  to  Casa  Foscotti  is  his  own  thought, 
and  was  only  broached  when  we  knew  your  coming 
was  no  more  than  a  matter  of  days.  He  must  be  a 
bold  man,  for  I  would  not  give  a  fig  for  his  life  if 
Luigi  di  Gadola  finds  him  out.  He  would  hang,  or 
worse." 

"  A  bold  man,"  echoed  Roger  Patcham,  remem- 
bering Saint  Agnes,  and  relapsing  again  into 
thought.  "  God  send  him  safe  out  of  it." 

"  And  us,  too,"  answered  Perego  ;  "  though  for  all 
my  ancient  patron's  hatred  of  me  I  think  we  have 
less  need  of  the  prayer.  Di  Gadola  is  as  ruthless 
as  death." 

That  closed  the  talk  for  that  time,  and  though 
Perego's  caution  never  slackened,  there  was  no  such 
parade  of  watchfulness  as  would  set  Denise  on  the 
rack.  Luigi  di  Gadola  was  an  ill  neighbour  she 
knew  of  old  ;  that  Piedmont,  and  indeed  all  Italy, 
was  in  a  ferment  she  also  knew,  so  that  the  setting 
of  sentries,  the  going  of  night-rounds,  the  careful 
keeping  of  arms  in  instant  readiness,  the  huge  troop 
at  their  heels  on  every  day's  ride,  needed  no  expla- 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  289 

nation  and  called  for  no  comment.  Nor  did  she 
even  note  the  doubled  vigilance  after  the  furtive 
message  had  come  from  Casa  Foscotti.  There  were 
no  more  ridings  afield  after  that  ;  but  then  it  was 
hard  upon  Christmas,  and  so  Caterina,  the  busy 
housewife,  had  an  excuse  ready  to  her  hand  for 
biding  within  doors.  She  was  jealous  of  her  fame, 
and  must  show  that  Meluzza  came  no  whit  behind 
Lhoeac  at  such  a  season  ! 

But  when,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  gay  bustle,  the 
cheery  quip  and  magpie  chatter  which  attend 
the  close  of  a  labour  that  sees  all  ended  save  the 
pleasant  toil  of  demolishing  that  which  the  labour 
had  created,  there  came  a  second  warning  from 
Casa  Foscotti,  a  warning  that  the  blow  would  be 
struck  that  very  night,  Roger  Patcham  no  longer 
hid  the  truth  from  his  mistress.  Whether  at  Meluzza 
or  in  Guienne  she  was  Suzeraine,  and  over  and 
above  the  consideration  due  to  the  woman  was  the 
duty  owed  to  Lhoeac.  But,  like  a  cautious  man, 
he  told  her  no  more  than  quieted  his  conscience, 
for  of  the  danger  he  at  first  sought  to  make  light, 
and  of  deCasera  he  said  nothing  at  all  until  com- 
pelled ;  a  crossed  love  affair  was  too  delicate  for 
such  handling  as  his. 

Then  followed  such  a  conflict  as  had  been  fought 
out  over  Saint  Agnes,  but  with  a  different  ending. 

"  You  take  your  risks,  and  why  should  not  I  ?  A 
woman  cannot  do  much,  but  surely  there  is  some- 
thing." 

"  Doubtless  di  Gadola  and  his  fellows  will  wear 


290  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

more  than  daggers  of  lath,"  answered  Roger,  his 
lean  face  never  losing  its  cheerfulness  ;  "  and  so 
there  may  be  enough  and  too  much,  God  knows,  for 
a  woman  to  do — afterwards.  Bluntly,  Mademoi- 
selle," he  went  on  hastily  as  he  saw  her  mouth  grow 
set  in  a  fashion  he  had  learned  to  know,  "  this 
night's  midnight  Mass  will  have  no  place  for  women, 
and  he  who  would  eat  his  Christmas  fare  will  need 
all  his  wit.  To  guard  our  own  lives  will  be  task 
enough  without  guarding  yours  too.  What  ?  do 
you  think  Messire  Perego  can  rightly  see  to  him- 
self if  one  eye  is  on  Madame  Caterina  behind  the 
curtain  there  ?  " 

"  Oh  ! "  and  the  hard  line  of  the  lips  broke  in  a 
smile ;  "  Caterina  is  an  obedient  wife,  and  will  bide 
up  the  chimney  if  Monsieur  Perego  but  bids  her." 

"  And  it  is  because  you  are  yet  no  wife,  that  you 
would  fling  away  your  life  and  ours  after  it?  Ah, 
Mademoiselle,  if  Monsieur  de  Casera  were " 

"  There,  there,  Father  Roger,  that  will  do,"  she 
cried,  her  cheeks  growing  redder  than  the  light  of 
the  lamp  warranted.  "  I  will  do  as  thou  sayest. 
Thou  knowest  thou  hast  often  told  me  that  the  first 
lesson  in  command  is  to  obey.  But — but,"  and 
her  eyes  grew  troubled,  "  if  our  men,  poor  souls, 
have  need  of  me,  thou  wilt " 

"  Have  no  fear,  Mademoiselle ;  to  woman  her 
work ;  and,  by  Saint  George,  Lhoeac  knows  you 
can  do  it  well.  That  it  may  be  too  heavy  is  my 
one  fear." 

It  therefore  happened  that  when,  after  a  batter 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  291 

of  hoofs  on  the  stony  causeway,  de  Casera  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  great  hall,  the  two  captains  alone  met 
him.  The  greeting — without  surprise  but  grave 
and  curt  as  of  a  man  whose  mind  was  full  of  anxious 
thought — which  he  gave  Patchain  confirmed  Pere- 
go's  suspicions  that  more  than  pure  love  for 
adventure  had  drawn  him  to  Casa  Foscotti,  but 
Mademoiselle's  name  never  passed  between  them. 

"  How  is  this?  "  said  Perego,  waiting,  on  his  part, 
for  no  greeting,  however  curt.  "  Has  the  plan 
fallen  through,  or  has  di  Gadola  discovered " 

"  Di  Gadola  has  discovered  nothing,  but  to  play 
spy  on  a  traitor  is  one  thing,  to  stab  him  in  the 
back  another.  I  broke  away  in  the  dark,  and  the 
ten  men  he  gave  me  are — the  Lord  knows  where, 
but  they  will  never  see  Meluzza  to-night." 

"A  spy?"  said  Roger  doubtfully.  The  thing 
itself  had  not  troubled  him,  but  the  word  vexed 
him,  for  he  was  jealous  of  the  honour  of  the  man 
who  might  one  day  be  master  of  Lhoeac.  "  For  a 
gentleman  to  play  spy,  Monsieur,  is  never " 

"  Is  never  pleasant.  You  may  spare  me  that. 
But  if  there  had  been  no  gentleman  to  play  spy 
Meluzza  would  have  followed  the  widow  Tron's 
hut.  Would  that  please  you  better,  Captain  Pat- 
chum  ?  What  ?  Is  this  wolfish  Seigneur  so  nice  a 
man  that  you  must  handle  him  with  scented  gloves  ? 
Believe  me  I  have  done  that  these  ten  days  past 

which  but  for Bah  !  that  is  past,  and  we  have 

enough  on  hand  without  adding  ancient  history ! 
Is  all  ready?  " 


292  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

"  What  ?  are  they  hard  behind  you  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no ;  we  have  a  full  hour,  or  maybe 
more." 

"  Then  a  little  ancient  history  may  do  no  harm," 
said  Perego.  "  We  had  your  two  messages  ;  but 
how  did  you  gain  an  entrance  to  the  wolfs  hold  ?  " 

"  By  leaving  Meluzza  by  the  south  and  reaching 
Casa  Foscotti  by  the  north  with  six  as  consummate 
scoundrels  as  ever  robbed  for  hire.  They  were  my 
vouchers,  and  passed  me  in  without  a  question,  for 
why  should  the  seventh  not  be  as  the  six  ?  No 
pigeon  would  mate  with  such  kites." 

"  What  ? "  cried  Roger  Patcham,  "  you  have 
given  him  six  that  we  may  have  one  ?  Strange 
strategy  that,  Monsieur  de  Casera ! " 

"  Six  that  he  would  have  had  without  me,  for 
they  were  drawn  to  Foscotti  as  a  whirlpool  draws 
flotsam.  But  if  I  brought  him  six  I  took  away  ten, 
so  he  owes  me  four,  Captain  Patcham." 

"  Ten  ?     How  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  gave  me  ten  to But  all  this  is 

beside  the  mark.  What  of  the  defence  ?  " 

"Not  so  beside  the  mark  as  you  think.  Does  di 
Gadola  still  look  for  a  surprise?" 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"Plague  take  your  thick  wit,  Monsieur,  it  was 
not  thus  at  Saint  Agnes.  Or  is  it  that  when  the 
quarry  is  fairly  afoot  the  old  dog  hunts  the  best  ? 
The  why  not  is  because  of  you  and  your  ten  men. 
Does  di  Gadola  suspect  you  ?  " 

"  I  and  mine  were  to  lie  in  the  woods  this  side  of 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  293 

Mont  Albano  until  midnight.  But  once  there  I 
sent  them  on  by  the  Novara  road  to  wait  my  com- 
ing at  the  first  cross  highway,  and,  by  grace  of 
the  saints,  there  they  will  bide  till  all  is  over.  Di 
Gadola  can  suspect  nothing,  since  he  comes  by  an- 
other road." 

"  What  is  his  plan  ?  " 

"A  simple  one,  and  wise  as  simple — to  enter 
quietly  by  the  front  door,  as  a  gentleman  should." 

"  If  he  can  !  " 

"If  he  can  governs  the  world,  Monsieur  Perego, 
since  not  even  Don  Desperando  dare  do  more  than 
he  can  do  !  In  your  place  I  would  give  him  his 
whim." 

"  A  free  entrance  ?     Never  !  " 

"  Why  not  ?     How  does  one  catch  rats?  " 

"Monsieur  de  Casera  is  right,"  said  Patcham. 
"  What  did  I  say  ? — a  surprise  is  worth  twenty  men, 
but  it  must  be  one  of  onset  and  not  of  defence. 
Listen  now  ;  bolt,  bar,  and  barricade  to  your  heart's 
content,  and  what  follows?  Simply  di  Gadola  loses 
his  surprise,  but  we  gain  nothing.  Poor  strategy 
that,  since  it  is  nothing  but  strength  against 
strength,  with  neither  wit  nor  subtlety  in  it.  Now 
what  is  Monsieur  de  Casera's  plan  ?  Oh,  say  noth- 
ing, Monsieur;  I  see  it  all  as  I  do  my  ten  fingers. 
Bolt  the  door  Christmas  fashion — di  Gadola  will  ex- 
pect it,  and  it  is  reasonable ;  set  your  watchmen  in 
the  echanguettc  above  the  gateway,  but  let  him  be 
asleep  :  tli.it  is  Christmas  fashion  too,  and  not' un- 
reasonable. Here  now,"  and  Roger  Patcham  swept 


294  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

his  arm  round  the  hall,  '*  we  have  five  entrances — 
two  through  doors  to  right  and  left ;  two  by  pas- 
sages there  at  the  end,  also  right  and  left ;  one  down 
the  stairway  between  these  two  last ;  a  curving 
spiral  stairway,  mark  you,  that  leads  to  where  we 
lie  snoring  above.  By  Saint  George!  nothing  could 
well  be  prettier!  What  follows?  In  comes  di 
Gadola — that  he  will  pick  your  lock  is  a  thing  of 
course,  he  has  his  smiths  as  well  as  his  rustlers — in 
comes  di  Gadola  and  his  men  ;  the  place  is  blank 
dark  but  for  the  one  half-turned-down  lamp  hung  in 
the  centre  there.  They  come  slowly  and  for  quiet's 
sake  as  near  tiptoe  as  such  cattle  can  walk.  With 
the  doors  to  right  and  left  they  have  nothing  to  do. 
Murder  is  their  business,  and  the  quarry  is  asleep 
upstairs  ;  plunder  can  come  later.  Di  Gadola  leads, 
since  no  man  knows  so  well  the  ways  of  the  house. 
At  the  first  step  they  start  to  steal  up  the  stairway, 
panting  as  creeping  men  do  in  the  dark  and  with 
their  muscles  slacker  than  their  nerves  ;  nothing 
shivers  a  man  like  that  groping  at  the  edge  of  he 
does  not  know  what !  Then,  out  of  the  shadows, 
and  from  five  points  at  once,  we  burst  upon  them 
with  a  shout  as  makes  the  roof  ring  !  It  is  the 
crack  of  doom,  no  less !  and  back  they  stagger  into 
one  another,  dazed  and  silly  as  sheep.  My  word  ! 
it  is  pretty,  very  pretty,  the  prettiest  thing  I  have 
seen  in  a  long  life.  If  we  don't  break  them  the 
first  charge  we  deserve  to  be  whipped  !  My  con- 
gratulations, Monsieur  de  Casera ;  it  was  a  fine 
thought,  a  fine  thought  indeed," 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  295 

So  it  was  settled,  but  as  each  man  went  about  his 
several  business  Carlo  Perego  shook  his  head  and 
muttered  to  himself — 

"  A  fine  thought  and  a  very  pretty,  but  we  have 
to  see  it  done  yet.  And  why — why  did  he  call  him 
de  Casera  three  times?  " 

In  a  man  who  had  set  wife  and  child,  as  well  as 
life  itself,  upon  the  issue  a  belief  that  all  things 
tend  to  the  worst  is  not  unnatural.  To  such  a  one 
the  putting  all  upon  a  cast,  the  fortune  of  an  am- 
bush and  the  chance  of  a  pitched  onset,  was  ab- 
horrent. Let  di  Gadola  enter  softly,  but  let  him 
them  burn  and  wreck  from  the  very  first,  and  what 
would  be  the  end  of  this  mad  scheme  ?  Why,  ruin  ; 
final  and  complete ! 

So,  for  an  hour  or  thereabouts — the  active  work 
of  trap-baiting  to  catch  vermin  being  done — Carlo 
Perego  gnawed  his  heart  out  waiting.  Leave  his 
place  by  the  right-hand  door  to  turn  the  serious  to 
a  jest  for  his  wife's  comforting  he  dared  not,  lest 
the  crisis  come.  No,  if  the  plan  miscarried  his  last 
kiss  was  given  ;  though  there  was  this  to  his  grim 
heartening :  he  might  go  first,  but  neither  Caterina 
nor  Guy  would  be  long  behind  him !  Luigi  di 
Gadola  could  be  trusted  to  see  to  that  for  old  time's 
sake.  So  the  first  grate  of  a  steel  tool  upon  the 
door  lock  was  to  him  the  lifting  of  the  heaviest 
burden  a  man  can  bear  and  live.  With  a  sigh  of 
relief  he  slipped  his  sword  from  its  sheath  and  put 
the  shadow  from  him.  For  good  or  for  ill  the  issue 
was  knit. 


296  THE  SEVEN  HOUSE 

But  Roger  Patcham  was  no  false  prophet. 
Slowly,  and  without  noise,  the  lumbering  door  was 
swung  open,  first  one  leaf  then  the  other,  and  out 
of  the  black  gap  of  the  night  the  fleshy,  full-lipped 
face  of  Tito  Zucchi  looked  into  the  shadows,  with 
the  narrow,  cunning  eyes  of  the  Seigneur  peering 
at  his  shoulder.  Slowly  and  softly,  yet  with  many 
a  tiny  jangle  of  steel  on  the  grey  flags,  jangles  that 
rang  harsh  and  strident  by  reason  of  the  great 
silence,  they  stole  across  the  shadows  of  the  hall — 
themselves  no  denser  than  shadows — their  troop 
following  formlessly  at  their  heels.  At  the  stair- 
foot  they  halted  a  brief  space  even  as  Roger 
Patcham  had  foretold,  and  to  the  watchers  the  very 
panting  of  the  half-held  breath  was  sonorous  in  the 
stillness.  Then  they  moved  up  the  lowest  arc  of 
the  spiral  stairway. 

The  time  had  come.  Where  he  stood  bent  above 
the  first  curve  of  the  steps  Roger  Patcham  straight- 
ened himself  and  filled  his  lungs  twice. 

"  Saint  Denise  for  Lhoeac !  "  he  shouted  at  the 
full  pitch  of  his  voice,  and  racing  downward  two 
stairs  at  a  stride,  "  Strike  all,  and  strike  home  ! 
Forward  all !  " 

But  those  below  and  behind  had  not  waited  for 
the  command.  With  the  first  break  of  the  hush 
came  the  swift  scuffle  of  feet  drowned  in  an 
answering  roar.  From  the  right  hand  in  turned 
Perego,  and  from  the  left  de  Casera,  and  Patcham's 
shout  was  still  stirring  the  dust  of  the  roof  and 
rumbling  mid  the  ancient  rafters  when  the  groans 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  297 

and  cries  of  the  smitten  rose  up  to  echo  on  the 
discord. 

In  the  astonishment  of  the  surprise  there  was  at 
first  no  defence,  and  so  but  little  rattle  of  steel ;  the 
tramp  and  rasp  of  feet  upon  the  stones,  the  whisper 
of  clothing  edged  along  the  wall,  smothered  oaths, 
unheeded  orders,  sudden  shivering  outcries,  were 
the  voices  of  the  struggle.  But  presently  above 
and  through  these  came  the  sharper,  shriller  speech 
of  sword  on  sword,  the  clang,  the  clash,  the  clatter ; 
and  what  at  the  first  had  been  sheer  slaying  turned 
to  a  brief  disordered  fight  fierce  with  the  courage 
and  terror  of  despair.  Plan  of  battle  there  was, 
there  could  be,  none.  The  cramped  space  forbade 
that — cramped,  that  is,  for  the  jostling  numbers 
that  now  thronged  it,  and  for  the  business  they 
were  at. 

But  the  fire  was  over-hot  to  last.  From  the  very 
first  all  thought  of  attack  was  abandoned  to  the 
one  purpose  of  forcing  a  retreat,  nor,  in  the  end,  so 
wild  and  breathless  had  been  the  onslaught,  was 
there  much  heart  felt  to  stay  the  flight.  Di  Gadola 
and  his  jackal  had  gone  down  in  the  first  onset,  and 
as  for  their  led  wolves,  their  power  for  harm  was 
lost  with  their  leaders. 

Then  it  was,  or  a  little  later,  when  the  stress  was 
over,  that  Roger  Patcham  remembered  his  promise 
to  Denise. 

"  Woman's  work !  "  said  he  bitterly,  and  eyeing 
the  terrible  picture  flung  into  vivid  clearness  by  the 
light  of  the  torches  now  thrust  into  the  sconces 


298  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

along  the  wall ;  "  devils'  work  first  and  woman's 
work  after !  Were  we  and  they  men  or  beasts  that 
we  so  mishandled  one  another?  The  only  comfort 
is  that  God  knows  the  fray  was  none  of  our  seeking, 
though  that  will  be  small  comfort  to  Mademoiselle 
when  she  hears  all  the  truth.  Bring  her  here  we 
cannot,  for  this  is  no  sight  for  a  woman.  To  bind 
and  bandage  will  be  bad  enough  without  seeing  the 
— the  rest  of  the  victory  !  Victory !  Well,  God 
be  thanked  it  was  di  Gadola's  doing  and  not  ours." 

A  pitiful  fruit  it  is  the  palm  of  victory  sheds  so 
lavishly  from  its  boughs.  There  they  lay,  God's 
likeness,  sprawled  and  hunched  as  they  had  fallen 
away  or  flung  themselves  in  the  last  agony ;  friends 
and  enemies,  their  love  and  their  enmity  alike 
quenched  for  ever  in  the  sudden  rising  of  the  red 
flood-tide  which  had  swept  them  so  swiftly  into  the 
silence  where  not  even  the  groanings  of  their 
fellows  could  reach  them.  At  last,  Patcham  roused 
himself. 

"  Leave  the  doors  open,  but  set  a  guard  beyond, 
lest  these  wastrels  return,  though  I  think  they  are 
not  such  fools.  Draw  the  curtains  across  this  end 
to  shut  out  the  stairway  from  the  womenfolk,  then 
have  the  wounded  into  the  guard-room — those,  at 
least,  who  cannot  keep  their  feet — and  let  the 
priests  be  sent  for.  They  will  have  no  white  con- 
fessions to  hear  to-night  if  the  whole  truth  be  told 
them,  and  'tis  a  terrible  thing  that  a  man  should 
wait  for  such  an  hour  as  this  to  make  his  peace 
with  God." 


HOUSE  OF  FRIENDS  AND  ENEMIES.  299 

Thus  it  came  that  it  was  to  astrange  and  sorrow- 
ful Christmas  gathering  that  Denise  and  Caterina 
presently  entered,  to  play  hostess  after  an  unwonted 
fashion.  Lamps  and  flambeaux  lit  the  gaunt  room 
to  its  furthest  limits,  so  that  the  very  corners  were 
as  light  as  by  day.  Ranged  side  by  side  down  one 
length  of  the  room  were  the  uninvited  and  now 
unwilling  guests,  with  here  and  there  mixed  through 
them  a  man  of  Meluzza.  As  yet  nothing  was  hidden 
and  the  staring  glare  laid  pitilessly  bare  the  stark 
horror  of  the  night's  work,  a  horror  heightened  by 
the  groans  and  curses  which  no  will  of  manhood 
could  repress.  Already  at  the  further  end  there  lay 
two  who  in  spirit  had  gone  to  join  their  silent 
fellows  of  the  hall,  and  by  the  bending  of  the  friars 
— crucifix  and  holy  oil  in  hand — above  two  more 
it  was  clear  the  tale  was  yet  incomplete.  Nay,  it 
might  close  even  with  them,  for  yet  others  lay  as 
calm  as  death  itself,  but  with  life  still  staggering  on 
the  border-line  that  divides  two  worlds. 

It  was  near  one  of  these  that  Denise  halted.  He 
lay  upon  his  side,  his  face  half-hidden  by  one  arm, 
while  the  other  was  flung  out  upon  the  floor,  palm 
down  and  fingers  crooked  so  that  the  knuckles 
stood  out,  white  and  bloodless.  The  tears  had  been 
running  down  her  cheeks  from  the  very  threshold, 
and  every  time  she  tried  to  speak  sobs  choked  her. 
The  pity  of  it,  oh !  the  pity  and  the  anguish  of  it, 
and  all  for  one  man's  greed  and  wickedness !  But 
now  she  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  gasp. 

"  Lhoeac's  ring!  "  she  cried,  pointing  to  the  hand 


300  THE  SEVEN  HOUSES. 

that  was  already  so  like  the  hand  of  death.  "  Who — • 
who  is  that  ?  " 

"  That  ?  "  and  Caterina  looked  from  the  woman 
to  the  man  and  back  again  to  the  woman's  face 
while  she  slipped  an  arm  round  her  waist  and  drew 
her  close  to  herself  before  answering.  "That  is 
Monsieur  la  Clazonne,  and  Carlo  says  that  by  God's 
grace  and  with  a  woman's  nursing  he  may  live." 

"  No,  no,  no,  not  Giles  la  Clazonne ;  it  is  Francois 
de  Casera." 

"  Giles  Francois  la  Clazonne,  to  whom  the  Pope 
gave  Casera  in  the  south,  though  of  that  Carlo 
knows  nothing.  Why,  Denise,  Denise,  what  is 
this  ?  "  For  Denise  had  sunk  down  upon  her  knees 
at  the  man's  feet. 

"  Oh  !  God  !  God  !  "  she  cried  through  her  renewed 
tears,  "  I  thank  Thee  that  it  is  no  sin.  Yes,  yes,  by 
God's  grace  and  a  woman's  love  and  care  he  will 
live.  Give  me  this,  oh  God,  I  pray  Thee  of  Thy 
mercy,  give  me  this  !  " 

And  when  la  Clazonne  of  Casera  came  to  himself 
it  was  to  find  his  head  resting  on  his  wife's  breast. 

THE  END. 


XJTHERN  REGIONAL  UBRARY  FACHJTY 


A     000127984     3 


